
Class ^'. .4.-41- 
Book.__(4l^ 
Copyiight]^" _ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 



THE NIGHT SIDE C)E EONDON 




A I'KCADILLY LADY. 
From an oil paintine; by Tom Browne. 



THE NIGHT SIDE 
OF LONDON 

BY 

ROBERT MACHRAY 

AUTHOR OF "THE VISION SPLENDID," **SIR HECTOR," ETC. 




ILLUSTRATED BT 
TOM BROWNE, R.L, R.B.A. 



PHILADELPHIA ' ' ' ' ' 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1902 



533 3 J 1 5 J 3 



Copyright, 1902 
By J. B. LiPPiNcoTT Company 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

my, 28 1902 

COPyniQHT ENTRy 

CLASS '^XXa No, 

h ^ 1 00 

COPY B. 



ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A. 



PREFACE 



*•*» 



This book is a record of Things Seen in London by 
night in the first tzco years of the tzcenfielh century — n 
record made bv f>en and pencil. The Artist and the 
Author leorked together, -I'isitijig the phwes described, and 
seeing the scenes herein set forth; Jhe volume is there- 
fore the result of lehat may be called' their common 
obserz'ation. 

This book is not by zeay of being a complete record of 
the Xight Side of London, though it is perhaps as com- 
plete as there is any object in making it. Two or three 
of the more familiar phases of London by night Iuk'c not 
been reproduced or touched upon; there is nothing, for 
instance, said about St. Martin's le Grand at midnight, or 
about a nez^'spaper-office at tieo or three o'clock in the 
morning, or about the Chinese opiujii-dens in the East 
End. Xor is there a chapter on the Riz'er by Night; ap- 
plication zeas made to the Commissioner of Police for 
permission to accompany one of (he riz'cr police-boats on 
its " rounds," but it zeas refused. And for obvious rea- 



vi PREFACE 

sous nothing is said about the zvorst and most devilish 
features of the Night Side of London. For those zvho 
zcish to become acquainted i^ntJi these hideous things, are 
there not guides to be found lurking near the entrances of 
some of the great Jiotels of London — just as is the case in 
Paris/ 

More than thirty years liave passed since tJie publica- 
tion of the last edition of a book which bore tlie same title 
as this — " The AUght Side of London." It ran tJirough 
several editions, and that in spite of the fact that it had 
no illustrations; this bore z^'itness to the zi'idesprer.d in- 
terest taken in the subject. At tJie time of the publication 
of the former "Night Side of London," the tozvn pre- 
sented certain aspects of night-life zi'hich have since 
passed away, but zuhich undoubtedly zvere of unusual 
interest to those keeidy observant of the human tragi- 
comedy. Thirty years ago or so the " Argyle Rooms," 
'' Cremorne," and the "Casino" still flourished, as did 
the " Cave of Harmony" and " CaldzveU's." Since these 
days there has been a considerable change, at all events 
on the surface, in the night-life of London. This has been 
brought about by various influences — principally, by the 
much greater actiz'ity and efficiency of the police, urged 
on by public opinion. 



CONTENTS 



H AFTER PAGE 

Preface ......... v 

I. Piccadilly Circus (ii f.m. to i a.m.) . . . i 

II. In the Streets ....... 22 

III. In the Streets — continued (Ratcliff Highway) . 44 

IV. "In Society" . . . . . r. . .64 
V. Still " in Society" ....... 79 

VI. Not ■' IN Society" . . . . . '. -95 

VII. An East End Music-Hall . . . . . 112 

VIII. Earl's Court ........ 125 

IX. The Masked-Ball 135 

X. The Shilling Hop ....... 152 

XI. Club Life 160 

XII. A Saturday Night with the " Savages" . . . i74 

XIII. With the " Eccentrics" (3 a.m.) .... 191 

XIV. " La Vie de Boheme" I99 

XV. Sunday Night at the New Lyric .... 217 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTEB 


t 


page 


XVI. 


A " Night Club" 


226 


XVII. 


The N.\tional Sporting Club . 


. 23s 


XVIII. 


A School for Neophytes .... 


. 251 


XIX. 


" Wonderland" 


• 259 


XX. 


New Year's Eve at St. Paul's . 


270 


XXI. 


The Hoppers' Saturday Night 


. 281 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



¥¥ 

A Piccadilly Lady 

Girl's Head .... 

Man From Up There . 

Piccadilly Circus. Midnight 

A Gay Little Jap 

On the Prowl 

"Jimmy's." 12.30 a.m. . 

An Old Old Woman 

Coffee Stall at Hyde Park Corner 

Coffee Stall in New Oxford Street. 2 a.m 

Trying to Reason with Her 

Standing in Little Groups . 

Burglar throws Some Light 

Singing in the Street . 

A Ratcliff Picture 

Turning and Churning Round and Round 

Shouting Shrill Abuse 

Down goes the Drunken Man Flat on His 

The American Girl .... 

The Restaurant Dinner 



Frontispiece 
Title-page 



Back 



3 

7 
13 
18 
20 
25 
27 
29 

34 
38 
43 
47 
53 
56 
59 
61 
66 
69 



X LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Crowd on the Great Staircase ...... 73 

A Cosy Nook ......... 77 

At the Empire .81 

The Empire Promenade . . . . . . . 84 

CovENT Garden Opera ........ 86 

A First-Nighter ......... 88 

Supper at the Carlton . . . . , . .91 

Dinner at the Cafe Boulogne, Soho ..... 97 

A Twopenny Pie ......... 99 

A Typical East End Showman ...... 105 

The Lion-Tamer 108 

Slanging each other ........ 114 

A Coster Song . . . . . . . . .115 

The Lightning Sketcher . . . . . . .116 

The Pet Comedian . . . . , . . .119 

" Mr. Guzzle" ......... 121 

Earl's Court Exhibition ....... 127 

Seen at Earl's Court ........ 130 

A Type ........... 131 

Another .......... 132 

The Big Wheel ......... 134 

The Dancers quickly form up on the Floor ... . 143 

Behind the Bandstand ....... 148 

CovENT Garden Ball Girls ....... 149 

Last Waltz 150 

Making Tracks 151 

The Cake-Walk at a Shilling Hop 157 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



XI 



THE Bar 
You MAY Smoke" 
pip-pip-pit-pome" — S 



A Sketch at the Press Club 

Type of Club-man 

Another 

Bounder's Club 

Type of Club-man 

Another 

A Toast 

Savage Club Menu 

Saturday Night at the Savage — ■ 

In the Chair—" Brother Savages 

" To Welcome the Harvest Ho- 

Club . ... 

Types of " Savages" 
Savage Club Concert . 
"Pay, Pay, Pay!" 
An Eccentric Club Menu 
The Eccentric Club Clock 
The Bar at the Eccentric Club 
A Story by a Member of the London Sketch Club 
Immaculate Shirt-Fronts were covered with Drawings 
A Night at the London Sketch Club — the " Bousa" Band 
The New Lyric Club, Sunday Night, ii p.m. 
A New Lyric Club-man .... 
Testimonial given Mr. Luther Munday 
Night Club Scene ..... 
Some Members of the National Sporting Club 
Floored ! ....... 



page 
i6i 

163 
165 
167 
170 
171 
173 
178 
181 
183 

184 
i8s 
188 
190 
193 
X95 
197 
209 
211 
213 
219 
221 
223 
231 

239 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



The Bar aj the, National Sporting Club 

Dr. "Jack" Examines the Cojvipetitors 

Types of Boxers . 

Type of Boxer : 

The Capting 

Habbijam's 

Type of Boxer 

Type of Boxer 

"Any Toff want a Jelly?" 

Boxing at " Wonderland," VVhitechapel 

Burglar entering Open Window . 

Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot? 

" For Auld Lang Syne" — New Year's Eve 

" The Cock o' the North" — Ludgate Hill, New Year 

Your Eyes fasten Themselves on a Procession . 

The Women and the Children drink Generously 

She Dances with a Certain Rough Gracefulness 

Then hangs out of the Window 

The Night Side of London Finished . 



s Eve 



page 
243 
245 
248 
249 
250 

253 
256 

257 
263 
.265 
269 

273 
277 
279 
285 
289 

293 
298 
300 



THE 

NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

CHAPTER I 

PICCADTLT.Y CIRCUS, II P.M. 1 A.M. 

" ' Put me down at the Piccadilly end of Regent Street,' said the 
lady of the feathers." — Flames, by R. S. Hichens. 

Piccadilly ! 

Why Piccadilly, and not something else — some other 
name? 

It is hardly possible to imagine any appellation less 
characteristically English than Piccadilly. }'et it is 
known all over the English world; indeed, like "^tlamn" 
and some other things that won't wash clothes, it may 
be said to be a household word. The famous Circus 
and street by an}' other name might have 
just as special an aroma, as exotic a l)ouquet, Piccadilly^ 
as they undoubtedly possess (particularly at 
certain hours), but somehow the foreign-sounding tag 
appears to have an appropriateness of its own ; it is as 
if there were some eternal fitness about it. Still this 
does not (juite answer the ([uestion, Why Piccadilly? 

The query has bothered many of the good people 
who are interested in tliis kind of conundruiu. The 



2 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

correct answer, perhaps because of its odious obvious- 
ness, does not seem to have occurred to anybody : Pic- 
cadill\' of course gets its name from the fact that it 
is the Place of Peccadilloes, the Promenade of the 
Little Sinners — to put the matter politely and deli- 
catel}', as a fashionable clergyman might, waving the 
while his gloved hands in dainty deprecation. Older 
writers solemnly debated whether the name were 
derived from pcccadilla, the Elizabethan ruff for the 
neck, or from " Peccadilla Hall," a house formerly 
standing in the neighbourhood. Sir John Suckling 
brings us nearer the mark when he alludes to the 
Peccadillo Bowling Green. Blount, in his book which 
has the endearing title of Glossographia, tells us that 
Piccadilly got its name from the pickadill, which was 

a band worn round the bottom of a lady's 
house '^ '"" skirt. Once, says he in his chatty way, there 

was a famous ordinary near St. James's 
called Pickadilly, and he declares that it " took denomi- 
nation Ijecause it was the outmost or skirt-house of the 
suburl)s"' ! Skirt-house — the phrase is deliciously quaint 
and suggestive ; it seems strangely appropriate, even 
prophetic, for assuredly a skirt-house of sorts Piccadilly 
still remains. 

To us of these twentieth-century times it is almost 
incredilile that Piccadilly " near St. James's" should 
ever have been the western boundary of London. The 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 



middle classes, who mostly inhabit the suburbs in these 
days — each man, so to speak, in a neat little skirt-house 
of his own — li\es miles and miles out of earshot of the 
bells of St. James's, although of a fine summer's after- 
noon \"ou will see representati\-es of them in 
shoals, and for the nnjst i)art in skirts, tlrink- "bvd'a^ 

ing" tea in the shops at the Circus end of Pic- 
cadilly. Then, for a couple of hours, say from four to 
six, Piccadilly is as redolent of the ordinary S(|uare- 
toed P)ritish \\ell-to-do-ness as an}- place you like to 
mention — is as ol)trusivel\' respectable as a Sunda}' morn- 
ing congregation in a small Scotch town. During the 
other hours of daylight Piccadilly is fashionable, aristo- 
cratic, autocratic; it is one of the great _ streets of the 
world — perhaps, in a sense, its greatest. 

But it is not these aspects of it that the ]\Ian From 
Up There wants to see; he has come, he tells you with 
engaging frankness, to see the Show 
" after the theatres come out," when 
the Circus, and the parts " contagious" 
thereunto, become the humming centre 



of " things." ( " Things" i^ 



trifle 




M IT THERE. 



vague, but no doubt the subject is 1;)est 

draped that wa_\-. ) A humming centre 

trulv enough Piccadill}- Circus is from 

ele\-en to one at night — it is the centre v\ the Night 

Side of London. There is room for uncertainty as to 



4 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

what is the centre of London by day. Mr. Joel Solo- 
mons thinks he has good reason for saying it is to be 
found in his own Tom Tiddler's Ground, which he 
];)cates not far from Draper's Gardens. The Honour- 
able Member for Muddleburgh has an idea 

The night ° 

centre cf that it is at Westminster, night or day, and 

London. 

as it is the only idea he probably has he cleaves 
to it, even as a land-crab holds on to a monkey's tail. 
Sam Bolton, cabman, of 74 Great Scott Street, has had it 
radiused into him that Charing Cross is the " bobby's 
bull's-eye" of the metropolis. And so on and on and on. 
But at night, at the hours named, or rather between 
them, Piccadilly Circus and the purlieus thereof are the 
centre of London, nor is there any other part of the 
town which will care to dispute with the Circus this 
tragical distinction. 

Piccadilly Circus and the purlieus thereof form an 
area with tolerably well-defined boundaries. On the 
east is Leicester Square, lit by ten thousand electric 
lamps; in the midst of the Square stands the statue of 
Shakespeare, on whose sculptured face wandering lights 
of blue, red, orange, and green, flashed from the Empire 

and the Alhambra, dance in a fantastic harle- 
boundaries quiuadc. North-cast is Shaftesbury Avenue, 

flanked by the whole dubious region of Soho 
— a district which in a sense holds more of the Night Side 
of London than all the rest of it put together. Further 



PTCCADILLV CIRCUS 5 

round to the north is Glassliouse Street, the very name 
of which is an apologue. Then Regent Street, as far 
as Oxford Circus on the north and Pall Mall on the 
south, with Piccadill}- Circus itself in between. Of 
course there is Piccadilly itself, say as far as Bond 
Street. Nor must mention be omitted of the Haymar- 
ket on the south-east. Time was when the Haymarket 
played a large part in the night life of the town, but 
that day (to be a little Irish) is past. This is what Du 
Maurier says of it in The Martian — 

" Fifty years ago every night in the Haymarket there 
was a noisy kind of Saturnalia, in which golden youths 
joined hands with youths by no means golden, to fill 
the pockets of the keepers of night houses." And he 
goes on to speak of some of the famous or infamous 
places of the locality, such as " Bob Croft's," and " Kate 
Hamilton's," and the " Piccadilly Saloon." In another 
part of this same book he narrates how 
" Barty" and Robert Maurice went to the "^cenur 
Haymarket, and " Barty," by his music, made 
fi\'e pounds " in no time, mostly in silver donations 
from unfortunate women — English, of course — who are 
among the softest-hearted and most generous creatures 
in the world." There is a curious piece of testimony, 
if }-ou like. One wonders (a trifle meanly, perhaps, but 
Cjuite humanly) jur.t what it was built on. 

The Show, as the Man From Up There terms it, is 



6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

seen at its best — that is, its worst — on a still, warm, 
starry night at the end of June, or the beginning of July, 
when the London season is at its height. The Show, 
in its later phases, seems never so tragical on a summer 
evening as it does when winter rain, or snow, or biting 
blasts add grim or squalid touches to the scene. You have 
dined, let us suppose, well and wisely at the Carlton or 
Prince's, the " Troc" or the Imperial, or some other 
of the numerous caravanserais, which are the 
Show begins dcsccndauts of tlic oucc celebrated Evans's 
Supper Rooms, and most of which lie well 
within the area tributary to the Circus. A minute or 
two after eleven you will " take your station" — to em- 
ploy the discreet language of the Court Circular, just 
as if you were a Royalty, or a Serenity, or a Trans- 
parency, the last being for obvious reasons highly recom- 
mended for immediate use — at a point of vantage. 

The best position, for at least the first half-hour of 
the Show, is the pavement between Piccadilly and 
Regent Street, on the north-west of the Circus oppo- 
site the Fountain. You look at the Fountain. On its 
steps sit strange female shapes, offering penny flowers, 
or haply tuppenny, to the passers-by. These female 
shapes, maybe, are the forms of women who once num- 
bered themselves amongst the night-blooming plants of 
the town ; anyway, there they are now ! Time was, 
who knows, when they and love were well acquainted — 




PICCADILLY CIRCUS— MIDNIGHT. 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 9 

and now " Only a penny, sir, only a penny for a bokay !" 
Then your eyes will range upward to the top of the Foun- 
tain, and \()U will immediately observe that a 
great sardonic humorist of a sculptor has Fountaii^ 
placed there a Cupid, armed with bow and 
arrow. The little god is poised on eager tiptoe in 
act to launch his sharp-edged dart. As the night ad- 
vances you will not fail to appreciate more and more 
the horrid humour of that bronze figure, that pagan 
parable of the Circus. Few people care for such pointed 
satire as this, and there is something to be said for those 
who maintain that the Cupid should disappear, and be 
replaced by the Giddy Goat or some other more appro- 
priate symbol. r 

For a few minutes the Circus is rather quiet. A 'bus 
now and again rumbles up, and interposes itself between 
you and the Fountain, hiding that mocking image. A 
girl of the night, on her prowd for prey, casts a keen 
glance at you, and flits silently past like a bat. Behind 
you — you can see her with the tail of your eye — pauses 
a Painted Lady, picture-hatted, black-haired, bella- 
donna'd, rouged, overdressed, but not more so than 
many a Great Lady. She makes a true picture of the 
town, of one aspect of the Night Side of London, as she 
stands with her back to the down-drawn, dull-red blinds 
of the shop window in the rear. A blind beggar now 
breaks in upon you with a hoarse, indistinct cry, that 



lo THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

sounds like many curses compressed into one, while his 
iron-shod staff strikes hard and sharp on the pavement 
within an ace of your toes. A " gentleman of 
t°7hrshow. (off) colour"— a " buck nigger" an Ameri- 
can would call him — goes by, a gratified 
smirk on his oily, thick-lipped face, and on his arm a 
pale, lip-laughing English girl ! Somehow you swear 
and turn away. And then a few more minutes pass, and 
the Circus suddenly buzzes with life; it hums like a giant 
hive. Here are movement, colour, and a babel of sounds ! 
Till you get used to it, the effect is somewhat stunning. 
But now the overture is finished, and the curtain is 
rung up. 

It is a scene that stirs the fancy, that touches the 
imagination. As the theatres and music-halls of London 
empty themselves into the streets, the Circus is full of 
the flashing and twinkling of the multitudinous lights of 
hurrying hansoms, of many carriages speeding home- 
ward to supper, of streams of people, men and women, 
mostly in evening dress walking along, smiling and jest- 
ing, and talking of what they have been to see. You be- 
hold policemen wrestling, and not unsuccessfully, with the 
traffic in the midst of the tumult. You catch 
goe^sup'^'" charming glimpses in the softening electric 
light of sylph-like forms, pink-flushed happy 
faces, snowy shoulders half-hidden in lace or chiffon, or 
cloaks of silk and satin. Diamonds sparkle in My Lady's 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS ii 

hair; her light laughter ripples over to you, and vou 
smile responsive ; a faint fragrance perfumes the wan- 
dering air, and the xision sweeps past you, on outside 
yt>ur radius. And there are man_\' such \isions, each 
with its own story, its own revelation — l)ut with these 
we have nothing to do, further than to say that the^- are 
all part of this pageant of the night, or, if \ou like the 
notion hetter. it is a scene out of high comedy, infinitelv 
allusi\e and suggestive, nor altogether lacking in the 
veritahle suhstance of romance. And for ten minutes, or 
a quarter of an hour, it is as if all the world and his wife 
and his daughters, his sisters and his cousins and his 
aunts, drove past you. 

'' An almight}' heap of fast freight there," savs, with 
strident laugh, a man from the wild and woollv West, 
who stands on the kerh near you. and who puts tons of 
emphasis on the word fast. But he is wrong — that is, 
mostly wrong. Doubtless the Other Man's Wife (to sav 
nothing of his Mistress) has some part in the moving 
Show. l)ut. speaking generally, nearly all of 
those ^-ou ha^•e seen are entered for the safe, if . . ^'f^,! 

' freight. 

not particularly exciting, " flat-race" event 
known as the Family Plate. As you gently insinuate this, 
or words to the like effect, into the disappointed ear of the 
dry-goods merchant from Julienne City, wdio is on the 
outlook for " something saucy," you note that the racing 
tide of life at length reaches the slack; the crowd begins 



12 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

to thin ; the jar and rattle of the 'buses once more pre- 
dominate, save when a noisome motor dashes by with 
hideous roar, or when the bhnd beggar aforesaid, start- 
ing on a fresh round of imprecation, again makes violent 
jabs at your boots. 

The curtain comes down, and you naturally think 
of refreshment. You stroll across the Circus to a 
" Lounge," walk up a flight of stairs, take a seat, and 
call for a lemon squash. A lemon squash gives you 
away, as it were, and several young ladies sitting about 
the room, who had watched your entrance with curiosity, 
now cease to regard you with any interest whatsoever. 
You are not worthy of their powder and paint. 
" Loun e " ^^^ gazc ou them and their male companions 
— though it is well to be careful how you do 
it. The women, you cannot fail to see, are young women 
Oi the town having drinks (mostly whiskies and sodas) 
with young men who are bent on seeing "life"; the 
women smile on the men, and smile on each other ; in 
some sort they are all evidently having a good time. The 
scene on the whole is gay and bright — there is nothing 
on the surface that is squalid or badly out of repair. All 
is respectable — within the meaning of the Act, as you 
might say. You notice this, and then you remember to 
have seen a colossal chucker-out at the door, and you ask 
what is he doing in this galley? Go to ! (Mem. It is bet- 
ter to go two, or even three, in the Circus than go alone). 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 



13 



Tiring of the " Lounoe," you emerge into the Circus 
again. And now }-()U take llie rest oi the Show in a series 
of tahleaux, and you begin with a cafe, the name of 



%JppERf.^|^ 




A GAY LITTLE JAP. 



wliich, SO far as the sound of it is concerned, recalls the 
pleasing legend of the Man who Broke the Bank at Monte 
Carlo. Just outside its vestibule— that giving 

,1 /-■ Ml r Tableau 

on the Ln"cus— you will see a row 01 men ^^ ^ 

Inmost of them foreigners) staring with 
bulging gooseberry e}'es at the French demoiselles, whose 
main camping-ground is the Colonnade of Regent Street; 



14 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

the same men, or their doubles, seem to stand there every 
evening, though this can scarcely be the case — the wonder 
is they don't catch something and " quit." Within the 
cafe, as you enter, is a picturesque (literally picturesque) 
little shop, where of foreign newspapers you may have 
" what vou please, m'sieu !" Still further within, you may 
have what you please ; }'OU may call for what you like — 
if you have the price. You quickly see that though the 
whole atmosphere of the place is foreign, yet the brutal 
custom of exacting payment for everything you receive 
is rigidly insisted on with true British bull-dog 
pertinacity. Having mastered this stubborn fact, you 
perhaps descend into the grill-room, where by way of 
whetting your appetite you may perchance see a gay little 
Jap (four foot six) following two pavement-ladies (each 
five foot eight) down to supper. At the same time you 
will notice, if your taste lies that way, the wall decora- 
tions of the place; they are well done. 

Having exhausted the attractions of this cafe, you may 
now step across the road into Glasshouse Street, and 
enter another cafe, which rejoices in a Latin name, and 
which is even more determinedly foreign than the one 
you have just left. Here, you will unques- 
No 2^"^" tionably imagine, you have transported your- 

self into a German beer-garden. The major- 
ity of its frequenters, you will see, appear to hail from the 
Vaterland, and you note that their glasses, like their bev- 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 15 

erages. liave been made in (iermany. Here there are not 
many women. l)nt sucli as are are not English; indeed, 
hv this time xon nnderstand that the night centre of Lon- 
don is cosmopolitan. Before you leave this cafe you 
must not fail to look at the mural paintings and other 
pictures which adorn the room — two of them at least are 
far abo\e the a\'erage. 

From Glasshouse Street you pass into Regent Street, 
and walking down its east side towards the Colonnade 
vou may halt, and take a peep into more cafes and res- 
taurants. If they are well filled, and you keep your eyes 
wide open, you may add several points even to the liberal 
education which you are already getting. In the Colon- 
nade itself you will enc(junter the peripatetic foreign 
colony of ladies who make this their rendezvous, and turn 
it into what Mr. Hichens calls, justly enough, 
a " sordid boulevard." The French spoken in tableaux^ 

this duarter. he tells us. is the French of Belle- 
\ille. and you may take his word for it, and so save your- 
self much unnecessary trouble and expense; the acquisi- 
tion of a language, it is conceivable, may be bought at 
too high a price. Comprenez, m'sieu? You shrug your 
shoulders, smile, and cross over to the other side of 
Regent Street. 

You now reach the spot from which, half an hour ago, 
you viewed the great whirring procession of cabs and 
carriages coming away from the theatres; it is compara- 



i6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

tively quiet. The rush for the last 'bus, or the dub-a-dub, 
dub-a-dub of a whirHng hansom, may make a temporary 
disturbance, but the Circus, though there are still plenty 
of human bats about, is veiled in a discreet silence. You 
pause for a moment, and then you stroll up the west side 
of Regent Street. You have perhaps gone a hundred 
yards or so when a party of four or five young " bloods," 

bent on carrying out their idea of a frolic, 
tableaux march past you arm-in-arm, and proceed to 

hustle the chucker-out at the back door of 
"Jimmy's" — that individual (the chucker-out, not 
" Jimmy," as the uninitiated might suppose) trying to 
bar their entrance. You are almost caught in the rush 
of these young heroes, but manage to make your escape ; 
you see, however, these daring fellows (five to one) carry 
all (i.e., the chucker-out) before them and disappear into 
the interior. You do not attempt to follow them ; you 
wonder vaguely what has happened to the gallant defen- 
der of the door, but presently he turns up smiling, and 
you understand that the incident, if not the door, is 
closed. And now you leisurely go round by a side-street 
which will take you into Piccadilly not far from the front 
of " Jimmy's." And as you are on your way it may 
chance that you will espy (good old word — espy!) but a 
short distance from Vine Street police-station a police- 
man or two affably passing the time of night with some 
of the Daughters of the Circus. But don't mistake what 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 17 

this means. The Liindon pohce are not bad men, and in 
their hearts is a g"ood deal of pit}', and s_\inpathy too, for 
tliese poor creatures of the Half-World, the wretched and 
miserable outcasts of society, and, in a measure, its 
victims. 

It is now midnigiit, and a church l)ell Ijooms out the 
hour. You are back again in Piccadilly, and its northern 
pa\'ement is filled with men and women, mostly women, 
tramping' up and down ; there are fewer on the other side 
of the street. In the middle of the thoroughfare is a long 
line of cabs — why so many? you ask, forgetting for a 
second that here is the night centre of the greatest city 
the world has ever seen. You mo\'e with the crowd ; y()u 
may be in it, not of it. but the mere fact that you are there 
subjects you to incessant solicitations; you are addressed 
as "darling," "sweetheart" — what not? Your "ears are 
deaf, and you take a look into " Jimmy's" ; you walk 
through the grill-room and pass into the dining-room, 
l)oth full of people, again mostly women, who, you ob- 
serve are nearly all in evening dress, presenting a gen- 
erous display of their charms. Here is the chiefest temple 
of the demi-monde. So long as a member of 
th.e scarlet sisterhood can i)ut in an appearance tabUiuL'^ 

at " Jimm}''s" she fancies she is not wholly a 
failure!!!! Once upon a time (as you may know if you 
lia\"e read Fielding or Srnollett or seen the cartoons of 
Hogarth ) the ghastl}- pilgriniage of the Woman of the 



i8 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



Town was from St. James's to Drury Lane; now it is 
from "Jimmy's" to Waterloo Road — to which the river 
by way of Waterloo Bridge is horribly, suggestively 

handy. Well, as you 
look on at " Jimmy's," 
other men, you cannot 
but notice, come in 
just as you have done, 
and stare, and stare, 
and stare. The dry- 
goods merchant from 



Julienne City, wdiom 
you have met before, 
asks coarsely, " What's 
in the cowshed to- 
night?" And you turn 
and flee ! You feel, 
being honest, you are 
something of a hypo- 
crite, but you get out 
into the street again. 

Now you take time 
to classify these night- 
walkers of the Circus into types. Here, strangest type of 
all, is a bent, battered, tattered figure restlessly pacing up 
and down the kerb ; from one side of the street to the 
other he goes, his eyes ever fixed upon the ground. He 




PICCADILLY CIRCUS 19 

is a Picker-np of Unconsidered Trifles, the end of a 
cigarette, the stuljb of a cigar, a [)in (if it l)e jewelled so 
nuicli the better), anything. He makes some sort (jf 
living out of it, otherwise he would not be here. He only 
appears late at night, luit every night — a kind of Wander- 
ing Jew }'ou might think him from his form and dress — 
you can see him on his beat. Where does he come from? 
Whither does he go? Here is a poor, old, wretched, 
squalid woman selling matches ; She thrusts a box into 
your hand, and her haggard eyes beseech you. Once, like 
her sisters of the Fountain, she too may ha\'e been — cjuite 
so. And the Unfortunates — the " bedizened women of 
the i:)avements," as Stevenson called them, or, to quote 
again from 'Sir. Hichens, the " wandering wisps of 
painted humanit}- that d}e the London night with 
rouge" ! On this lovelv summer night they flaunt them- 
seh'es in all their bra\'er}' ; the majority of them, indeed, 
are not badh- dressed, nor are all painted. 

Some 

Some of them are foreigners, but most of figures in 

the Show. 

them are unmistakably English. Some have 
bold eyes, some have n(jt. They seem sober — -every one. 
But what a number of them ! And all sorts and sizes, so 
to say; young, middle-aged; thin, stout; sliort, tall; 
Jenny " fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea" — -that ne'er- 
do-weel t\-pe too, but all the types seem to be here, "^'ou 
look into their faces, and there is a story in every face, if 
you could but read it. And such stories! Ah, if the 



20 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



stones on which they tread could speak ! They can hardly 
be beautiful stories ; they might well be terrible. And the 
men? They also are a mixture, nor are they all young. 
You can tell at a glance that not manv of them are citi- 




" jimmy's," 12.30 a.m. 



zens of London, and not a few of them are here from 
sheer curiosity ; they have come for the most part to see 
the Show. 

About twenty minutes past twelve you notice a singu- 
lar movement in the street ; it sets in towards " Jimmy's" 



PICCADILLY CIRCUS 21 

and stops there. You go with it, and find yourself again 
in front of the place. And the very first thing you see is 
that a couple of policemen (one of them a sergeant or a 
superintendent) are on guard a few feet from the door. 
vSlowly people emerge in pairs from the restaurant, and 
(lri\e away in cabs to parts of the town which have, like 
their inhabitants, " lost their Sunday-school certificates." 
And about half-past twelve a crowd of demi-mondaines 
and men pours forth, but by this time there are four 
policemen outside the door, standing there to preserve 
order. Four policemen ! (Is there such another sight to 
be seen night after night in any other spot on the globe?) 
Hansoms dash up, and the porter helps the Faustines, 
who climb into them, with as much care as if they were 
duchesses. Others vanish into the night, while a larger 
number are swallowed up in the throng of 
street-walkers, who for another hour or so will Neanngthe 

end. 

figure in the piteous Struggle of the Circus — 

the Battle of the Street, finishing up, perhaps, at some 

night-club, or in some other den. Some go " home" ! 

There you have it all. 

Heaven knows it ill becomes any of us to preach, so 
down with the curtain, put out the lights — 

'■' The wise and the silly. 
Old P. or Old Q., we must leave Piccadilly." 



CHAPTER II 

IN THE STREETS 
" Hell was a place very like London." 

London by day, it will be generally conceded, presents 
what in its own way is the most imposing and wonderful 
spectacle in the world. As a " sight" there is nothing to 
approach it — Paris, New York, or any other city, not 
excepted. But it may be questioned if London 1)y Night, 
for sheer, downright impressiveness, does not seize upon, 
grip and hold you, as even London by Day does not. 
From midnight till about two o'clock in the 
siieu(fe"^^ morning the streets gradually show^ fewer and 
fewer signs of life and movement. From two 
o'clock to four there is a lull, a quiet, a hush, a vast en- 
folding, mysterious, awe-inspiring silence. It is as if the 
tide had gone out into the far distance, leaving the shore 
lonely as a maid forsaken, still as pillars of stone, but 
portentous, majestic, and strangely solemn withal. 

The city sleeps ! 

London, taken " by and large," is abed and wears the 
night-cap. Husbands lie beside their wives — in some 
cases, it may perhaps be, beside the wives of others, for 
this great old London is no Puritan, but is a mixture, a 



IN THE STREETS 23 

ferment, in which is everything good, and bad, and indif- 
ferent, and — human. In this profound stihness of the 
night \()ung men and maidens (h"eam happy dreams and 
see briglit, heguiHng \-isions — or ought to! 
Dear little children, their small distresses for- °"^,°" 

gotten, their pett}- naughtinesses forgiven, 
slumber sweetly in a thousand thousand peaceful homes. 
But not all London sleeps. In twenty great newspaper 
offices, editors, leader-writers, reporters, and compositors 
are at work, amidst the buzz and bur-r-r of the printing- 
presses. .\t the big railway centres, both for passengers 
and " g-oods" there is activit}', though of a quieter sort 
than that which prevails by day. The clubs, both high- 
class and no-class, are not all closed ; the no-class clubs 
are at their best — or rather, far rather, at their worst. 
The thief, the burglar, the prowler, the prostitute — they, 
certain!}-, are not all asleep. Nay, you can spy them 
standing, watching, waiting in dark corners. 

After four o'clock the city begins to awake, and the 
great silence, which has wrapped it round like a garment, 
is gone — swiftly swallowed up in the roar of the streets, 
growing and swelling even as the day and its business 
grows and swells. The Night Side of London has disap- 
peared — it is as if it had never 1)een ; but the following 
evening it will be repeated, and on the same gigantic scale. 

What of the streets, then, from twelve to four? 

Shortly after midnight all the public-houses are shut 



24 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

up — some of the best of them by eleven, others at twelve 
•sharp, but most stay open till half-past twelve. With the 
cry " Time, time!" the barmen turn the lights down and 
the people out. All sorts and conditions of men and 
women (particularly men in a certain condition) now 

gather in groups in front of the " pubs," in the 
close. '"' ^ windows of which there still burns a light or 

two, and from behind whose walls the chinck 
of money being counted may be heard. If you look at 
these men and women you will see that the}' are for the 
most part more or less hardened citizens — criminals of 
both sexes ; the broken man, the lost woman, the drift and 
wreck of humanity. A few are respectable people, but 
their proportion to the rest is small. 

From twelve to two many cabs still flash past with 
their freightage or crawl along in search of fares. In the 
Circuses and other central places you can see eyes of 
green and red, as it were, gleaming at you from the still 
long ranks of hansoms. Heavy wagons also toil labori- 
ously on to Covent Garden and the other large markets 

which feed this great hungry giant of a town, 
open sky "^ ^^ ^^^^ pavcmeuts men and women walk, some 

quickly and purposefully, for they are going 
home, while others loaf, lounge, or limp about — home 
they have none; it is a word which has no meaning for 
them. These are they who dwell in the Hotel of the 
Beautiful Star, as the French call it, or, locally translated, 



IN THE STREETS 



25 



the benches and flagstones of the Thames Embankment, 
Trafalgar Scjuare, or a place of the same kind. On warm, 
dry nights these resting-places can hardly be termed ideal, 
but hdw about them when the rain pours down or in the 
cold of w inter ? 

Here is Trafalgar Square, in the midst of which stands 




AN OI.D OLD WOMAN. 



the splendid column reared to the memory of Nelson. 
On its northern side, opposite it, is the National Gallery. 
This is the same thing as saying that the Square is full 
of associations of heroism and great deeds on the one 
hand, and on the other of the delight, the beauty, the 



26 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

power and the glory of Art. Now look at the row of 
benches, some four or five in number, placed on an ele- 
vated part of the Square, almost exactl)^ between Nel- 
son's Column and the National Gallery. On every one 
of these benches are seated people who will spend the 
night there, and in the light of the electric 

Trafalgar 

Square, lamps you can see them pretty well. Take the 

1 A.M. 

first bench, and you start back, a gripping pity 
in your heart, for the chief figure you discern is an old old 
woman, and her hair is silver white. Her poor, dim, old 
eyes are closed, the poor old frame is bent and huddled 
up on the bench, the poor old feet, which have taken her 
here after straying through unimaginable highways and 
byways of life, are drawn together in an attitude of 
weariness past all words to describe. Near her are two 
men : one looks as if he might be a mechanic who has 
fallen on evil times, the other is a night-hawk, resting 
before he swoops down on such prey as may come his 
way. On the other benches are men, women, boys, girls 
— the waifs and strays of London — though this is too 
mild a way to put it. 

But enough of this. 

The most prominent features of the Night Side of the 
London streets are the coffee-stalls, the hot potato-cans, 
and the whelk-counters, which afford refreshment, and 
entertainment too, during the hours of dark. And if you 
will make a round of the streets, say on a cycle, you will 



IN THE STREETS 



27 



be able to form a good idea of the town — at least, from 
the outside, if yon will proceed in a leisnrelv fashion, 
stopping" now and again for a look round and a 
dial with a coffee-stall keeper or other pro- "-1^ ^''"'' 

i ■!■ Corner. 

vider for the Children of the Night. Suppose 

you select a route. Start from Hyde Park Corner about 

midnight, but before you set off have a talk and a cup of 




(^V.DE. Par.^ ^rncr. 



coffee at the stall which you will notice hard by one of the 
gates. Let us say that two policemen, evidently on the 
best of terms with each other and the coffee-stall man, 
arc within a few feet of you, and you can hear what they 
are sa}-ing. One of them has just had an adventure with 



28 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

a refractory individual. " 'E didn't know wot 'e wanted 
— didn't nohow — 'cept he wanted a row — 'e wos jes' 
spoihn' fur a fight — 'e didn't mind 'oo it was with, or 
wot it wur fur. 'E jes' wanted trouble — 'e wur out 
lookin' fur it, 'e wur. 'E wurn't goin' to move on, not 
'e. Wy should 'e? An' 'e gave me some more o' 'is 
lip. But I moved 'im on !" And the two constables laugh 
and chuckle. While you drink your cup of coffee a 
guardsman comes up — why so late ? you wonder ; and 
then another man, who looks like an ex-guardsman, and 
has come to revisit his old familiar haunts, joins him. 
" Packet o' woodbines, George," says the last-comer. 
" 'Ave a cup of corfe, Bill?" " I'll tike a piece o' kike, 
if you like, Tom." " Yes, a piece o' kike, George." 
"There!" " Wot's up?" "I ain't got no kike — sold 
out early ; there ain't none left ! Been awful busy right 
along!" " Yes?" " All the kike, s'elp me, went 'arf an 
hour ago!" 

And now you do make a start on your round, which, 
let us say, to night will be something like this — 

From Hyde Park Corner you run along Piccadilly to 
the Circus — you have already seen such sights as are to 
be viewed in this famous part of the town, so you do not 
linger there. You move up Regent Street to Oxford 
Circus, and here you will see a scene not very dissimilar 
to that of the Circus at the other end, though it is on a 
decidedly smaller scale. You will probably also observe 



IN THE STREETS 31 

that tlie Women of the Town who frecjuent the spot are 
of a lower t}pe. Suppose }'oii now cycle along Oxford 
Street, past Tottenham Court Road, along New Oxford 
Street, say as far as the corner where is Mudie's well- 
known library. Almost opposite the last-named is a coffee- 
stall (p. 29), and about it there are some fifteen or twenty 
persons. It is worth your while to dismount and add 
yourself to their number for a few minutes. 
It is a typical coffee-stall, and the crowd about coffe?-stau 
it is typical too. There is something Parisian 
about the scene, but this is because there are some trees 
in the background, which the darkness appears to mul- 
tiply, and to give the place something of the character of 
the Boulevards. Near by is a cabstand, and the cabbies 
patronise the stall, which is kept by a bright young fellow 
wdio has a pleasant, cheery, smiling way with him. His 
customers chaff him, and he pays them back in their own 
coin, adding sufficient interest the while. He seems to 
know most of his customers pretty well, addressing the 
majority of them by their Christian names — "Jim," 
'' Molly," " Sally," " Kate," " Peter," and so on. 

The patrons of the coffee-stall are " warious." At the 
side next the street stand two young women, both well 
dressed, one of them almost elegantlv. She is the better 
looking of the two, and you naturally take a good look at 
her first of all. You see she is rather pretty, and has once 
been prettier. You know what she is, or if you don't, you 



Z2 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

do not need to be told. She has been walking the streets 
for the past two or three hours, and what she would call 
" business" has been bad. She is going home alone — 
which is not what she had intended ! The young lady to 
whom she talks has met with a similar experience, and 
the two exchange their dreary confidences. They speak 
in a low tone, however, and you cannot hear 
conlhm'^d what they say. They soon stop talking alto- 
gether to listen to the chaff passing between 
the cofifee-stall keeper and a " cabby" who has just driven 
up. Next to the two women there are lounging on the 
kerb four or five young men — they are hardly men, for 
they are really lads — whose ages run from eighteen to 
twenty-three, or thereabouts. They have either had their 
coffee or they are not " taking any." Perhaps they have 
not the price. They stand silently by, smoking cigarettes, 
whose odour is not exactly that of the Spicy Isles. They 
keep one eye, so to speak, on the two young women, and 
with the other they take in the rest of the crowd. One 
w'onders why in the world they are not in bed. From 
their appearance they belong to a class wdiich should be 
" respectable." It may be that they are young graduates 
in the school of crime — there is declared to be an intimate 
connection in these days, or is it nights? between coffee- 
stalls and crime — but, if so, the lads cannot be said to 
have the hardened, battered aspect which is generally 
considered to belong to the habitual criminal. Perhaps 



IN THE STREETS S3 

they are only beg-inners, and, certainly, it would be better 
for them, and for everybody, if they were in bed. For, 
almost cheek b}' jowl with them, yon see two other }-onng 
fellows, and what they are is written large upon them. 
They are " Hooligans." And the " Hooli- 

" Hooligans.'' 

gans" are a curse, and a pest, and an alto- 
gether damnable feature of London life at the present 
time. The evenings and the nights are of course fullest 
of opportunities for them, and you may begin to fear, as 
you see more of them at other cofTee-stalls in the course 
of your ride, that they are a numerous class. At least, 
you can safely surmise that it is no good thing for those 
respectable-looking young lads to be within close touch 
of their society. The " Hooligans" at the stall absorb 
into their S}-stems a couple of hard-boiled eggs, eat a 
piece of cake, and drink a cup of coffee each, cursing very 
audibly as they consume the food. The meal finished, 
they light cigarettes, look round as if they were specu- 
lating whether there was any opening for them in the 
crowd, and, seeing none, they slouch away into the dark- 
ness. 

A little bit back from the stall are a couple — a man and 
a woman, both somewhat intoxicated, the woman more 
so than the man. Indeed, she is inclined to be maudlin 
and to babble — but not " o' green fields." The man is 
trying to reason with her, perhaps to get her to go home, 
but she maintains she "won't go home till mornin'." 

3 



34 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



The tableau they present is half comical, half disgusting. 
The lady always has the last word in each argument, and 
when you leave you observe that she persists in the 
statement of her continued determination not to move 
from the spot. You think it altogether likely that she will 

not go home till morn- 
ing. Leaning on the 
counter of the stall, 
their cups in front of 
them, are a pair of 
Jarvies, otherwise cab- 
drivers. " Got one o" 
them ston.e bullets o' 
yours?" asks cabby 
number one of the 
stall-keeper. " What do 
you mean with your 
stone bullets?" retorts 
the keeper. " Ain't got 
no stone bullets here. 
Don't keep 'em. What d'ye want 'em for? to ball up 
yer 'osses' feet?" " Wot you givin' us? Ain't 'e saucy, 
Bill?" says he facetiously, turning to his pal. 
boiled." " Wy, if those heggs o' 'is ain't stone bullets, 

strike me dead. 'Ere, give us a couple o' 'ard- 
boiled, and look lively. We ain't goin' to spend the 
bloomin' night 'ere. So, go along !" " 'Ave you got 




TRYING TO REASON WITH HER. 



IN THE STREETS 35 

such a thing as a ' doorstep'? If so, I can do \vith a 'ole 
staircase o' "eni." cried the other cabby. " You ain't 
'ungry. are yer. Mike?" " 'Ungry ain't the word." 
Presently the cahl)ies are served, and retire munching 
iiUo the Ijackground. 

1 1 ere. a few paces from the stall is a drinking- fountain, 
and about it is a group of three or four workmen — as 
}'ou can tell from the way in which they are dressed. 
The}' have come to the stall strictly on business, that is, 
for much-needed refreshment. Perhaps, of all those you 
see here, they ha\'e the most legitimate claim on the coffee- 
stall. They are night workers, and have every right to 
have their wants satisfied. A\diile you are looking at 
them two new arrivals come upon the^' scene, a man 
and a woman — these night birds, you will per- 

- Night birds. 

cei\'e, go about most frequently in pairs. The 
man's face is red, pimpl}', unwholesome, suggestive as it 
can be of an ardent devotion to Bacchus, but, on the other 
hand, his companion is a quiet, well-dressed, well-be- 
haved, decent-looking person. Their story seems to be 
simple. If (jne reads it aright, it is a case of the w'oman 
trying hard to reform a drunken husband. Still, the 
man's air is jaunty; it is the woman's which is humble 
and depressed. It is she, however, who goes up to the 
stall, and buys coffee for two and biscuits. And now a 
woman, who is almost cra;.y with drink, and who reels 
out the most frightful blasphemies, comes shuftling and 



36 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

staggering to the stall. A policeman, who has all the 
time been watching the group from across the road, 
makes a move forward, and then, thinking better of it, 
stands still, waiting to see what will happen. But noth- 
ing happens. The woman goes off again into the night, 
leaving behind her, as it were, a lurid trail of evil-sound- 
ing words. 

All this you have seen in ten minutes or a quarter of 
an hour. It may be that you have seen enough, but in 
any case you must ere this have finished your coffee. So 
you again mount your wheel, and ride off on your expe- 
dition. You now travel a short way back until you arrive 
at the corner of Tottenham Court Road, and as you pass 
along this thoroughfare you will see several coffee-stalls 
and at least one whelk-counter and a peripatetic hot- 
potato-can man. At none of the coffee-stalls do you re- 
mark a considerable number of people; most of them 
have at best only two or three customers. The purveyor 
of whelks is not patronised at all. The potato-can man 
is also solitary, but his time will come in the cold early 
hours of the dawning day. Some other night the case 
may be quite different, but to-night the street is rather 
empty. So you go on your way, and in another minute 
or two you are in Euston Road, a street which has about 
as malodorous a reputation as any in London, particu- 
larly with regard to its Night Side. Yet a short distance 
from Euston Station you come upon as handsome a 



IN THE STREETS 37 

coffee-stall as any you will see in your journey, and you 
jump off and take a good look at it. The first thing you 
will notice is that in front of it is a carpet formed of 
broken egg-shells, and }'ou perhaps begin your conversa- 
tion with the keeper by referring to this circumstance. 
\nu compliment him on the fine appearance of his place 
of Inisiness — you observe that the stall is freshly painted 
and well appointed. On one side of it, in large letters, is 
the legend " Al Fresco." He tells you that 

" Al Fresco." 

his Stall cost a hundred pounds, and it is quite 
evident that he is proud of it. He tells you also that this 
is a quiet time of the night with him, and that he won't 
be really busy again until about four o'clock. He is dis- 
posed to chat, and he maintains that he is. all in favour of 
the crusade against coffee-stalls as they are at present. 
" They should be licensed." said he, " and then we'd hear 
no more about the connection betw^een coffee-stalls and 
crime. I think Mr. John Burns, M.P. for Battersea, is 
quite right in everything he has said about these stalls. 
The good stalls are all on his side; it is only the bad stalls 
who fear him and do not agree that a change should be 
made. Why," continued the man, " you'll find half a 
dozen coffee-stalls within a quarter of a mile of King's 
Cross. There is no need for such a number. More than 
half of them should be shut up. And then those of us 
who do a straight business would feel ourselves pro- 
tected." . The man glances across the street, and there you 



38 



THE XIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



will espy in the half-darkness curious figures standing in 
little groups — they are, to put it in the least offensive 
way, not reputable characters — they are bad men and bad 
women of the lowest type. 

You get on your bicycle again, and proceed to get con- 
firmation of the statements wdiich you have just heard. 



n M 




STahpih 

They are true. Within the area mentioned are these half- 
dozen coffee-stalls, and you do not require to be told there 
are too many of them. You may or may not stop 'at one 
or more of them, but if you mean to get over the ground 
which you intended to cover when you started out, it will 



IN THE STREETS 



39 



be better for you to get on down Gray's Inn Road, and 
there you will see still more coffee-stalls. 

You have perhaps made up your mind to see something 
of the East End. though by this time }-ou cannot but be 
aware that this coffee-stall business is a great " industry" 
— in a sense; however, you wish to continue your excur- 
sion. On you go, therefore, across Holborn, and by 
Cheapside, into the City proper, which is now hushed and 
quiet even as some forgotten city of the dead. You have 
no doubt read of cities standing on the floor of the sea — 
cities with temples and theatres and palaces and splendid 
mansions and long aisles of magnificent streets, and 
everywhere in them and about them the blue-green trans- 
lucent water for atmosphere, and everywdiere strange 
shadows and shapes, mo^•ing fantastically, or motionless, 
more fantastic still. Such in some sort is the City at dead 
of night; }-ou have seen that by day it is the roaring, 
raging mart of the world, but in these hours of silence it 
is something that seems unreal, dreamlike, ghostly, born 
of fable and legend like those imaginary cities that stand 
in the sea. You pass through it, and at x^ldgate you are 
on the edge of the other London, the East End 
— cut off from the \\>st by the City. You '"^End' 

reach Whitechapel. and halt in the spacious 
\\diitechapel Road; xou behold more cab-stands, more 
coffee-stalls. If }T)u get off at any one of the latter a^ou 
will almost certainly find yourself in the midst of a scene 



40 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

more or less similar to that which you saw an hour or so 
ago in New Oxford Street. For there is a sameness 
about them all. Turn up to the left, and you will pres- 
ently arrive in what has been called the " murder area."' 
Here is the coffee-stall which figured not long ago in 
what is known as the Dorset Street case. It is quiet 
enough now, but at any one of these coffee-stalls a brawl 
may take place at any moment — it depends on circum- 
stances, amongst them being the presence or the absence 
of the police. And, if your curiosity is not yet satisfied, 
you may visit other parts of the East End ; but let us say 
you have had enough of it, as you wish to take a run 
through South London while it is yet night. 

You make for London Bridge — one of the bridges of 
history — and in a few minutes you are in South London. 
The streets here, at any rate, by this time are fallen very 
quiet — the great silence is upon them. You may stop, 
though most likely you content yourself with a cursory 
glance as you ride along; but if you do pause at one or 
other of the many coffee-stalls, you will look on much 
the same sort of thing you have already seen — the stall, 
its lamp shining on a group of figures standing about its 
counter, and, not far away, a watchful policeman. Now, 
you get along through Battersea, and, crossing the River 
once more, find yourself, after having traversed parts of 
Chelsea and Belgravia, back at your starting-point. If 
the night has been fine the journey has not been an 



IN THE STREETS 41 

unpleasant one, except perhaps in such streets as are being 
washed by the water-cart brigade, where you may have 
had to negotiate shallow canals of muddy filth and liquid 
slime. Your trip may not have been particularly edify- 
ing or instructive, but if you have failed to be interested 
you may be sure the fault lies with yourself. And now a 
word or two about the deeds, the dark deeds, which have 
been perpetrated at these coffee-stalls or in their immedi- 
ate vicinity. In a letter to the Daily Chronicle last 
autumn, Mr. John Burns, the well-known Member for 
Battersea, particularised some facts referring 
to the connection there is between coffee-stalls ^^^ cdme.-'' 
and crime which are worth repeating. On Oc- 
tober 30, 1900, a }oung man was stabbed in the back at a 
coffee-stall in Waterloo Road. On December 7, 1900, 
police-constable Thomson was killed at a Whitechapel 
coffee-stall l)rawl while properly discharging his duty in 
trying to quell a disturbance. In May, 1901, a woman, 
sixty-one years of age, was assaulted by two ruffians at 
a stall, and died from a fractured skull. In August, 
1 90 1, at Hvde Park Corner, a porter's head was cut open 
with a blunt instrument. " There was a free fight, in 
which a number of disorderly persons of both sexes took 
part. The police said in evidence that ' objectionable 
characters nightly congregated about these coffee-stalls, 
and frequently molested late pedestrians.' " In August, 
1 90 1, there occurred a typical case at a Tottenham Court 



42 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Road coffee-stall. The following account of the subse- 
quent proceedings in the police-court may fitly close this 
statement of the coffee-stall aspect of the Night Side of 
London — 

" At the London County Sessions, Clerkenwell, Mar- 
garet Ryan, nineteen, tailoress, was accused upon indict- 
ment with having maliciously wounded Walter Edwards, 
a labourer. The prosecutor's evidence was to the effect 
that at about one o'clock in the early morning of August 
4 he was in Tottenham Court Road near a coffee-stall. 
He w^as accosted by five women, one of whom was alleged 
to be Ryan. They asked Edwards to treat them to cups 
of coffee, and, on his refusing, two of them struck him 
with their fists. The accused, it was said, produced a 
o-lass tumbler, and threw it at the man, striking: him 
behind the left ear. He was then knocked down, and 
while on the ground was kicked by the women. At the 
same time some one, picking up a piece of broken glass, 
drew it across Edwards's throat, inflicting an 
case^"^^ injury which had to be surgically treated. 

The women took to their heels, and the prose- 
cutor dropped unconscious on the footway. An alarm 
was raised by the bystanders, and Ryan was arrested 
afterwards in a house. Her defence was a plea of mis- 
taken identity. The jiu'y adopted this view and acquitted 
her." 

Now that public notice has been called to the coffee- 



IN THE STREETS 



43 



stalls it must he said that the police have them much 
hetter in hand than formerl}-. Nor is there any douljt 
that the police have the whole of London much more 
efficiently i)rotected at night at the present time than was 
the case only a few years ago. This is to he seen in the 
constant raiding of night clubs and in other ways. No- 
where is this more marked perhaps than in the East End, 
as, for example, in Ratcliff Highway, where, at least on 
the surface, the scenes which used to make that street a 
byword and a terror ma}- no longer be beheld. And it is 
thither we shall now go — to take another look at the East 
End. And we shall see — what we shall see. 




CHAPTER III 

IN THE STREETS COlltiuued. (rATCLIFF HIGHWAY) 

" In the streets the tide of being how it surges, how it rolls ! 
God ! What base ignoble faces ! God ! What bodies want- 
ing souls !" 

Alexander Smith. 

The now almost forgotten poet who, in a sour mood 
of pessimism, wrote these Hnes, was doubtless thinking 
of the meaner streets of Glasgow which were very famil- 
iar to him, but they might be applied as correctly, or 
incorrectly, to the poorer streets of any great city. In 
any case they are far too sweeping, but there is a certain 
amount of truth in them. To a large extent they are un- 
fortunately descriptive enough of some of the streets of 
the East End of London, whether by day or night. Still, 
there is nothing to be seen in the East End that bears 
even a poor-relation likeness to the characteristic scenes 

that are to be witnessed every evening in Pic- 
nThwa cadilly. There once was a time when Ratclifif 

Highway presented in low life what the Hay- 
market and Piccadilly showed in high, or at least better- 
dressed, life. And though it is hardly correct to say that 
this time is entirely of the past, yet in a great measure 
44 



IN THE STREETS 45 

it is — that is, so far as the once famous, or infamous, 
Ilii^hwa}' itself is concerned; \'ice of the old historic, 
fnll-tiavoured, fire-ship sort has heen relegated to the side 
streets. The Show itself is gone; it has heen replaced 
l)y many side-shows, so to speak. It is perfectly possible 
to walk along the whole street, now called St. George 
Street, from East Smithfield to Shad well, " from Dan to 
Beersheba," and find nothing particularly remarkable, but 
if you plunge into the back streets you will certainly see 
and hear, if you keep your eyes and ears open, some 
curious sights and sounds. 

It used to be the fashion for visitors to London, espe- 
cially when they were from the other side of the, Atlantic, 
to form a party to make a tour of the East End on Satur- 
day evening. Seated on the top of a tram or a 'bus, they 
would explore W'hitechapel and Mile End as far as Bow, 
and return ; next, greatly daring, they would diverge 
into the Commercial Road, and finally, still more greatly 
daring, wind up the evening's " divarsion" by taking in 
RatclifT Highway. And, sure enough, Wliitechapel is a 
sight well worth seeing, and remembering too — the enor- 
mous crowds of people, the fiaring lights on stall and 
barrow and the sea of upturned faces, the movement, the 
apparent confusion, while the noisy shoutings and bellow- 
ings of would-be sellers rend the air ! And in the Com- 
mercial Road there is much the same thing. There is 
nothing specially vicious about it, nothing wicked, but it 



46 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

is interesting" to the student of human nature, and to the 
artistic eye, not enamoured solely of mere prettiness, is 

full of types that have their own fascination — ■ 
t^pes^" ^^ ^^ ^^^ living, palpitating drama, mostly of a 

comedy character, hut tragedy is never far 
away in the East End. Indeed, some one has called the 
East End the " Everlasting Tragedy of London." There 
is truth in this, but there is also exaggeration, just as 
there is in the poet's verse. By and by, in another chap- 
ter of this bock, you will see East End London setting 
out for its great annual holiday when the hopping season 
begins, and you will also see that it manages to get no 
little fun and jollity out of life. Its fun is not the same 
kind of thing that the W^st End calls fun, but it is just 
as real, perhaps more so. 

After Whitechapel and the Commercial Road you will 
think Ratcliff Highway rather dark and fearfully quiet. 
You naturallv wish t() begin at the beginning, so you 
perhaps start from the Tower — if it is a fine night with 
a clear-shining moon, that pile in itself is a thing more 
than well worth seeing — then you go past the Mint and 
St. Katharine's Docks. The docks are on your right, and 
East Smithfield is on your left. Presently you are in St. 
George Street, otherwise Ratcliff Highway. The street 
got its new name from the church of " St. George's in the 
East," one of the great churches of London; the church 
is almost half-way down the street. Other notable places 




SINGING IN THK STREET. 
From ati oil painting by Tom Browne. 



IN THE STREETS 



49 



are the Seamen's Mission Hall, the Seamen's Chapel, and 
nutal)le also, though in a dilTerent way, is Jamrack's. 
Ex'ervhody has heard of Jamrack's, where yon 
can l)u\- an\- li\in"- creature yon i^lease, from ,,. , ^'^^ 

C> J I > Highway. 

elephants to humming-birds. Jamrack's! 
Jamrack's! — the name always sounds like that of some 
character out of a novel by Dickens. W^ell, you walk 
along the street: in parts it is (juite deserted, in others 
there are small knots of people; here and there are men 
and women standing or sitting in front of their open 
di.ors. There is no loud talk, no shouting; the air is not 
darkly blue, as you perhaps half feared, half expected it 
would be, with strange and weird oaths and imprecations. 
And you may proceed as far as Limehouse without seeing 
or hearing anything that tickles }Our curiosity. Perhaps 
you may stop and talk to a policeman ; you ask him where 
are the once famous features of the Highway gone, and 
he will tell }-ou that he does not know where the}' have 
(ront\ but gone thev are — thanks to him and his kind. 
But is it so? 

For one thing, as you have plodded your way east- 
ward, you have noticed one feature of the Highway, and 
it is a \-ery suggestive feature, and this is the number of 
public-houses in the street. It almost seems as if every 
second or third house was a " puli." You have of course 
glanced in. and you observe that the bars of these places 
are well filled, and that though the appointments are not 

4 



50 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

of the most attractive description — they are not of the 
flaunting gin-palace order so conspicuous in some dis- 
tricts of the town — yet the groups appear to be enjoying 
themselves, and mostly in a quiet way. You notice at 
once that the patrons and patronesses of these resorts are 

all sailor folk, seamen, sailors' wives or sweet- 
"pubifcs " hearts — all connected in some way with the 

life of the sea. From some of the publics you 
will have heard the strains of music — not exactly sweet 
music either. There is plenty of volume, of quantity, in 
the strains, but of quality not so much as might be 
wished. Perhaps you stop and listen; then you hear a 
song, sung in a way that only a sailor sings a song. And 
as you listen, there comes to you from afar the sound of 
more music ; it seems rather remote ; you listen intently, 
and you make out at last that it is being wafted down to 
you from somewhere up the side street at the corner of 
which you are standing. You, it may be wisely, but that 
will depend, determine to follow it up. All that you have 
seen so far has been a little tame; and as you anticipated 
something out of the ordinary, something " spicy" or 
" saucy," you are rather glad to launch out on further 
adventure. 

And up this side street — there is no need to give it a 
name, for there is more than one of it — you do come on 
something of the kind you have been looking for, some- 
thing that will remind you of what you have read or 



IN THE STREETS 51 

heard of the old Ratcliff llighwu}-, something- \()U may- 
see any night, if you hke, though you probal)ly would 
" rather not," in the low parts of Liverpool and Cardiff. 
Vou reeall what the policeman said to you, and xou know 
very soon that he has told you only part of the truth. 
The Highway itself is changed, l)ut all around, 
in these dim streets which branch off it, it still ^j^^^^^^ 

surxives. Well, you see it in every great port 
of the \\(irld — the same thing, always the same thing. In 
Rotterdam, in Antwerp, in Hamburg, in New York, San 
Francisco, Hong Kong, Singapore — always the same 
thing. WHien " Jack" comes ashore after a voyage, it is 
ten to one that he makes a straight line for the nearest 
drinking-den with his mates, and Jack ashore is the prey, 
one n-iight almost say the natural prey, of the publican 
and the sinricr. Crin-ips are the same all the world over, 
and s(j is that good-natured, big-hearted sailorman 
whom we call Jack ; he is soft-headed as well as soft- 
hearted. Nor does the breed ever change — so there is 
always a Ratcliff Highway, or something corresponding 
to it, in every port. 

And soon you come upon a picture, a typical picture. 
There it paints itself for you in front of a pub- 
lic-house — the public-house itself, vou cannot ^ Ratchff 

^ J picture. 

fail to ol)serve, being a very inferior establish- 
ment ; in fact it is a low boozing-ken, or not much better 
than one. Three figures stand outside the door and in 



52 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDOiM 

front of the window, from which there streams forth no 
great amount of Hght. One figure is that of a representa- 
tive of the lowest class of sailorman there is under heaven, 
and that is the man who looks after the furnaces and fires 
on a steamer; he is called a stoker in the navy, a fireman 
in the merchant service. There is no man who sails the 
sea who has so bad a time as the fireman : his work bru- 
talises him ; the heat in the interior of the steamboats 
drives him mad ; his thirst is quenchless — he goes to sea 
nearly always drunk — he wakes from his stupor with a 
raging thirst — he remains thirsty — when he gets ashore 
he rushes to the nearest drinking-den to quench that 
awful thirst of his. He is poorly paid, and what he re- 
ceives on landing, at most two or three pounds, soon 
disappears ; it melts in a few hours ; usually it is stolen 
from him; he never really gives himself a chance, nor 
does anyone else give him one. 

He has no chance. Look at him now ! He is a demor- 
alised man, a badly demoralised sailorman. He has been 
drinking heavily, but he has still some glimmerings of 
reason, but not enough to keep him away from the den. 
He still feels that awful thirst, which is the tragedy of 
his lot, poor devil ; it is not yet satisfied ; he must have 
more liquor, even if it is the rankest and vilest stuff that 
he is given — it always is. But he must have more, more, 
more. He is not alone — this unfortunate wretch of a 
fireman, who is yet — yet — a human being. By his side 




A RATCLIFF PICTURE. 



IX THE STREETS 55 

stands a woman, a genuine Moll of Ratclifif. As you see 
her. you are forced to remember the woman you have 
seen in the caricatures of Rowlandson. for here is one of 
them, risen, as it were, from the dead: stout, ill- 
ta\(iurcd. hard-featured, horribly leering, abominalilv 
coarse, hard, and hlthy — she is a prostitute of 
the lowest class. She is making love (love!) "^r!,^^^^ 
to the fireman ; she wants him to stand her a 
drink, but he has just enough sense left to know all that 
lies that way, and he refuses — that is, at first. But the 
woman is not without her assistant. For with her is a 
'* bully" — yes, a second character out of the Georgian 
period come to life again! Together the prostitute and 
the Imll}- gradually edge the fireman into' the den ; they 
coax, they cajole, they push him dexterously along; in 
a minute more they are all inside. A policeman passing 
on the other side sees the game, and he grins to himself. 
and says, " They've got him !" And they have. \\'hen 
they've finished with this poor Jack, he will be lying un- 
conscious in some street far-retired from view, his money 
will have vanished, and. unless he is verv luckv indeed, 
so will have most of his clothes ! It's not a prettv picture, 
is it f But scenes of the same sort are to be witnessed in 
every great port of the world, and witnessed, too, every 
night, and not only in or about Ratclifif Highway! 

While you have been looking on this little bit of real- 
ism, you have all the while heard the music sounding 



56 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



from somewhere higher up the street ; it now seems a 
little nearer you, and you proceed in the direction from 
which it comes. You draw nearer and nearer, and soon 
you are just in front of the " Black Cat" or the '* Red 
Rat" — it doesn't really matter what we call it, but it is 

there right enough! The sounds com" from 
haii^"'^'^ the first floor, and if you follow a separate 

staircase, communicating with the street and 
not with the " pub" — that is, communicating directly — 
you will arrive in a fair-sized room, at one end of which 




ISO 
CHUR.NIMO • 
ROWMCJ • AMD • 
RouMD . 



is the band, discoursing the most extraordinary, unmusi- 
cal music as ever was ! On the floor half a dozen Jacks 
are turning and churning round and round and round 
with robustious young women in their arms; they stop 



IN THE STREETS 



57 



turning and churning- after a while, and now they line up; 
then at it, heel and toe; tlien more turning and churning, 
turning and churning. The band gives forth a final, ear- 
splitting bray, and the dance is over. Then drinks, 
drinks, drinks! (iin and rum are tlie favourites of your 
sailorman and his young (more generally old) woman. 
Suppose you enter into conversation with one of tlie 
ladies, you will find that it runs, as naturallv as rivers run 
to the sea, to gin or rum or both. And if vou should get 
tired after a while, and you are pretty sure to get tired, 
of the dance-hall of the " Black Cat." why. there are 
others of the same sort no great distance away. And if 
you do not come upon one of these, then, at any rate, 
there are concert-halls, contagiously situated to " pubs" 
of the " Black Cat" stripe. In all of them vou will see 
Jacks — and Jills! And "you can't 'elp but larf." or the 
whole thing might break your heart ! Of course, it has 
its humorous side, but it has others, and these are not at 
all humorous. After a time you bid the chairman — there 
is nearly always a chairman at these functions — good-bye, 
and thereafter vou turn back into the Hip-hwav aeain ! 

You now mo\'e \\-estward until you come to Wells 
Street. Perhaps you hesitate — you think vou have seen 
enough for one evening, but you walk up Wells Street; 
as you approach Cable Street you join a swarming crowd, 
which attracts you and draws you on. In a minute or 
two vou are in Cable Street. It wants but half an hour of 



58 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

midnight, but the place is literally thronged with people, 
so that you think something important is forward. You 
scan the faces around you, and, in a flash, you see they 
are not at all English-looking; in your ears are the 
sounds, it might well seem to you, of every language 
under heaven. It would puzzle you to enumerate the 
nationalities represented — but there are men and women 
and children from every European clime, from the Orient, 
and even from Africa here. And you may be sure that in 
this seething human maelstrom of races and tongues there 
is a seething maelstrom of human passions, from the most 
primitive and aboriginal to the most complex and diaboli- 
cal. You take note that here the police go 

A foreign ° 

East End about in couples ; it is not safe for them to go 

street. 

about their work singly — and there is always 
plenty of work for them here. You will see some of it 
presently. But what a world of curious interest it is ! 
Take a sample ; odd but typical. Outside a shop is a 
small crowd (a denser crowd in the crowd, as it were) 
gazing into its solitary window. There is music, too, 
coming from the shop ; and the music, unlike that to 
which you have listened with horror earlier in the even- 
ing, is sweet, soothing, dreamy, delightful. You manage 
to force your way into the crowd before the window, and 
look in. It is a shop — a poor mean shop — a shop kept 
by a poor man for poor men and women. It is a baker's 
shop, and the bread sold in it has a foreign, unfamiliar 



IN THE STREETS 



59 



aspect in your English eyes. The shop is badly hghted by 
two or three flickering candles — tallow '* dips." The pro- 
prietor, in trousers and shirt open at the neck, leans over 
a narrow counter; l)eside him is a woman, and behind 
him, to his left, is a doorway, and in it stands another 
woman — the first woman, perhaps, is his wife, the second 
his mother. On shelves are the loaves, pile on pile, 
quaintly shaped, but still the veritable stufT and staff of 
life. There are two or three customers on the other side 
of the counter. And just to the left of them is a man 
playing divine music on a zither! You wonder, is the 
zither-player there to draw business to the shop, or is he 
playing for his own and his friends' pleasure and for 
yours ? — anyway, there he is. But what i strange scene 
— the baker's shop, the 
baker, the women, the 
bread, the buyers, the 
zither-player ! And all 
this part of London is 
full of strangely col- 
oured scenes just like 
this ! 

You move on again, 
though you would fain 
linger as the zither- 
player touches his strings. And now^ you come to the 
mouth of an alley. Next the street stands a sullen man, 




6o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

beside him two policemen; far down the alley a virago 
is shouting shrill abuse (p. 59). The sullen man is her 
" man," but she is going for him as hard as she can in lan- 
guage which leaves nothing to the imagination. He would 
say something in reply, but the policemen warn him that 
silence is the best policy, and the retort discourteous dies 

away upon his lips. In her special brand of 
stree^scene. vitupcratiou the womau is a great artist, and 

her friends and neighbours greet all her points 
against her man with applause; they wait in silent enjoy- 
ment until she has made her point, and then they roar 
their delight whole-heartedly. The sullen man drifts 
away amidst their jeers, while his much better-half holds 
the fort in triumph. And as you look on. another man 
comes into the mouth of the alley — he is drunk ; he lurches 
about ; he sways uncertainly, but he halts unsteadily in 
the little crowd which has been listening wi'.h such gusto 
to the artist in abusive language. He says something in- 
distinctly. Then he swings forward a step, and touches 
one of the policemen. It may be that the police-officer 
thinks the man wishes to hustle him, or it may be that he 
thinks this is the best way to treat the case, but he gives 
the drunken man a shove, a push, and down goes the 
drunken man flat on his back. As he falls on the flag- 
stones you can hear the thud and the crash as his shoul- 
ders, and then his head, strike the stones. They are sick- 
ening sounds. He does not get up — does not attempt to 




DOVJM • 



IN THE STREETS 63 

move. People bend o\-er him, and look into his face. 
The man is drunk-stni)id, l)ut still he lies there — he might 
be dead; and now the policeman, alarmed that his push 
may ha\e very serious if not fatal results, bends down, 
and with the help of liis mate raises the man, whose wits 
slowly come back to him after a fashion. They shake 
him about like a bottle — as if the process encouraged the 
sj)eedier return of his wits — they clap his hat (3n his bleed- 
ing head, and send him off, not looking or caring much 
where he goes. A friend takes him by the hand, and 
leads him away. You lose sight of him, and vou are not 
sorry. And now you ha\-e had quite enougli of it ; you 
walk to the nearest station or cabstand, and home you go. 



CHAPTER IV 

" IN society" 

" There are many grand dames whose easy virtue fits them like a 
silk stocking." — Du Maurier. 

The Night Side of London " high hfe" is on the sur- 
face extremely kaleidoscopic, but beneath the surface and 
in all essentials it differs little from what the Night Side 
of high life has been since high life began. Its main fea- 
ture is, as it has always been, and always will be, Mr. H. 
G. Wells's Aiificipatiuiis to the contrary notwithstanding, 
the Pursuit of Pleasure in an everlasting Vanity Fair. It 
is a merry-go-round, whose merriness quickly or slowly, 
according to the toughness of one's physical and moral 
digestion, passes into monotony. Not that Society is 
more decadent now than at any former time. 

" Society." 

Indeed, in some respects Society prides itself 
on being better than it used to be. Thus, if it gambles as 
much as ever, it certainly does not drink to that excess 
which was its habit in former days. Then London So- 
ciety is so much larger than it was even a generation or 
two ago — it has grown gross with millionaires and other 
Men with Money. There are a great many sets in Society 

— there is even an innermost set of social Olympians — 
64 



" IN SOCIETY" 65 

but the only people who are really '" in it" are the people 
with the big- bags of shekels. Blue blood or new blood 
matters not at all — rich blood is the thing. 

The pursuit of i)leasure, like death, claims all seasons 
for its own, but London has ear-marked, so to sav, two of 
them. There is the season proper, the season, which 
begins after Easter and lasts till well into July or the be- 
ginning of August. Then there is the "little season" in 
October and No\ember, after the cream of the shocjting 
has been skimmed and before the hunting has com- 
menced. As an institution the " little season" is growing 
in i)opularit}', but it does not begin to compare with the 
t)ther. All the greater social functions take place during 
the course of the latter. Royalty is in to\yn. 
and this is a lirime factor. Tlic season is dis- ,, ^^l 

i seasons. 

tinguished by " Levees" and " Drawing- 
Rooms" at the Palace — also by balls, garden-parties, and 
concerts there. In this year, 1902. the day Drawing- 
Rooms ha\'e been abandoned, and evening Courts have 
taken their place: thus a novel feature of the Night Side 
of London has been introduced. People whose state is 
little less than royal are also in town. If the Duchess of 
Blankshire is going to give a ball, you may be sure it will 
come off about the end of May or some time in June, but 
it must l)e remembered 1902 is an exceptional year — the 
year of the Coronation. Also, of course. Parliament is 
in session during this period. An all-night sitting is one 

5 



66 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



of the sights you may wish to see in your round-up of the 
town's Night Side, but you will find it much better fun to 
be in bed. 

London, besides, attracts at this time vast numbers of 

people from all quarters of the globe — foreigners of every 

tongue and colonials — and they are always 

The 

"Amurrican" very kccu to scc everything. Foremost amongst 

element. 

the elements which go to swell the already- 
gorged city is the ever-enlarging " Amurrican" invasion 
each spring, and at the head of the invaders is the pretty, 
brilliant, perplexing, distracting, 
American " gal." She is a woman 
of many ideas, but she is devoted 
to one above all others, and that is 
the " good time." She is deter- 
mined to have it, and she does ; in 
her eyes her male relatives exist 
for no other object than to supply 
the necessary wherewithal for the 
campaign. She is indefatigably 
pleasure-loving. She is very much 
in evidence in the Night Side of 
London Society — just as she is a 
feature of its Day Side, and in not 
a few smart sets she is queen. She 
comes, she is seen, she conquers. And at the end of each 
season her native newspapers recount with no inconsid- 




" IX SOCIETY" 67 

erahlc pride the nuiiihcr of dukes and (jther l)ig' game she 
has ■' hagged." \'ou l)et she has a " good time." Why, 
she was made for it ! 

How does London Society spend its evenings, its 
niglits. l)efore it goes to sleep? It makes, as a rule, a good 
long night of it l)efore it turns in, jaded and faded and 
tired out. It has a good deal of s}-mpathy \\ ith the Scotch 
laird who, on heing called in the morning hy his man, and 
heing told that it was a wet day, ortlered his serxant to 
keep the hlinds down and the shutters closed, and he'd 
■' make a night of it." Well, how does Society spend its 
nights before it retires? Does not the Press unweariedly 
record it every morning? Some newspai)ers 

=' '■ ^ "What 

make a handsome thing for their proprietors soL-iety 

Is Doing.' 

out of the business, and, incidentally, afford 
anxthing but exiguous incomes to the ladies of title and 
others who furnish them with "pars." to go under some 
such heading as " What Society Is Doing." Iinpriinis, 
there are dinners. Of necessity, " One must eat some- 
where" — Lord Beaconsfield never said anything truer 
than that. " Where is the man who can live without 
dining?" And we English have e\'er been trencher-men 
of renown ; in fact, it lias been broadly stated that we are 
a race of gluttons and coarse-feeders. But the charge is 
tt^o sweeping: e\-erything "depends," once one's first 
youth is past, on one's doctor chiefly; we are all slaves to 
llarlev Street, and " cures" and courses of this thing or 



68 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

that. The speciahst has his finger ever on our pulse, is 
ever looking at our tongue, is ever regulating us like ma- 
chines — as we are. Yet sometimes we venture, greatly 
daring, to flout and defy him. Think of the hundreds of 
decorously dull dinners, at which enormous quantities of 
food are consumed, that take place during each season, or 
of the savage supper-fights often seen at dances and balls ! 
Truth to tell, the gentle art of dining delicately and dain- 
tily is not particularly understanded of the British people, 
great or small. We have plenty of French chefs, yet 
nothing (but the doctor, and not always he) can kill our 
English appetites. This is one of the things in regard to 
which each of us " remains an Englishman." A great 
chef once said there were just two kinds of dinner — one 
was a dinner, and the other wasn't. But as regards Eng- 
lish dinners (when they are not of the second descrip- 
tion), there are several kinds, such as the State Dinner, 
the Civic Banquet, the Club Dinner, the Restaurant Din- 
ner, and the Private Dinner — the last-named ranging 
from the Feast to the Pot-luck. As a rule, the man who 
is invited to take pot-luck has a pressing engagement — 
otherwise he has dyspepsia for a week. 

The State Dinner is pretty sure to be a solemn func- 
tion, but if you have the honour of being present on one 
of these oppressive occasions, you can at least relieve the 
almost intolerable tedium of it by studying the deport- 
ment of your fellow-guests. The humorist has ever a 



"IN SOCIETY" 



69 



perpetual feast of g^ood things within and without him- 
self, and humour has no recruiting-sergeant so keen as 
the trained faculty of observation. Yet it never does to 
forget that hunmur is a dangerous thing, and therefore 
you will keep your ideas to yourself. E\-en at the Civic 
Bancjuet. where \-ou have a wider, more broadly human 
field, it is well to remember this. At the Club 
Dinner, too, it is not a bad thing to recall how About 

o dinners. 

true this is. Here, perhaps, you are among 

friends who know you better than you know yourself. 




But your sphere of observation is sure, except on special 
occasions, of which more anon, to be somewhat limited ; 
for the Club Dinner is not what it was. Men don't dine 
at their clubs nowadays ; they go with their wives or the 
wives of others ( it is astonishing how this phrase will 
keep on repeating itself!) to partake of the Restaurant 



'JO THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Dinner. These Restaurant Dinners are comparatively 
recent institutions, so to speak, having come into vogue 
during the last few years, but they have become almost, 
if not altogether, the greatest feature of the Night Side 
of London high life. Fashion shifts about a bit amongst 
the larger restaurants, and there are certain of them more 
frequented by one smart set than another. But all, or 
nearly all, the big hotels have restaurants, and some of 
the smaller, and perhaps a trifle more select, have them 
too; they cater handsomely for tout Ic inondc that can 
pay. So you may dine at Claridge's, or the Carlton, or the 
Cecil, or the Savoy, or, if you prefer a restaurant pure 
and simple, at Prince's, the Imperial, the Trocadero, the 
Criterion, Frascati's, and so forth. No shade of doubt 
but you get the best dinners in London at the restaurants, 
and see the most interesting company in them as well. 

But it may be that you do not regard dining as the sole, 
or even the chief, business of life, and certainly " all Lon- 
don" does not spend every evening in dining luxuriously 
or the reverse. So, after dinners, or in addition there- 
unto, what come next in the tale of the Night Side of 
" high Sassiety," as it is called in the music- 
parties'.'^ halls ? Well, of course, there are evening-par- 

ties innumerable — parties with music, recep- 
tions where professional entertainers sometimes, though 
not always, succeed in entertaining; evening card-parties, 
where bridge or poker will be the attraction (cards are 



IN SOCIETY" 



71 



also played after "dinners"); "small and earlies" ; 
" little dances," where }-()u may hope to sit out a dance or 
two with your best girl if you have any luck; big private 
or subscription l)alls, penny plain or twopenny coloured — 
in other words, in ordinary evening attire or in fancy 
dress, though the latter are not common, the masquerade 
having died out pretty well from amongst us — and for 
cause; and last, but not least, skating-parties (in the 
early part of the year), which now and again rise to the 
giddy height of being styled " carnivals." And there is 
no prettier sight in London than one of the skating-rinks 
when it is well filled. ( What the present writer does not 
understand is why, seeing that London is so full of Scots- 
men as to have earned the name of the Caledonian Asy- 
lum, curling-rinks are not added to the sporting equip- 
ment of the town in many quarters. Is it because the fair 
sex does not curl ? — there is a spacious opportunity to pun 
here or hereabouts, but it is magnanimously foregone. ) 

Then, of course, besides dinners and parties there are 
the theatres, the opera, concerts, the music-halls. London 
supports many theatres, and their numl^er is 
always increasing. And London's taste in Xvers 

plays and players is amazingly catholic ; it 
prefers comedy to tragedy, and has a liking in reason for 
farce, but so long as the piece is good, well acted, well put 
on, London patronises it generously. A poor play, how- 
ever, has no chance. What high-life London wants 



72 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

is to be amused; it seeks for brightness, sparkle, pretty- 
ensembles ; it hates to be made to think. It will have 
nothing to say to Ibsen, it likes Mr. George Alexander, 
but it prefers Mr. George Edwardes five days out of the 
six. Its standard of intelligence is not the highest in the 
world, but then you can't expect it to have everything. 
High living and plain thinking are not necessarily yoke- 
fellows, but they undoubtedly form the average team. If 
the combination ever by any chance reads a dramatic criti- 
cism, it may possibly look at half a dozen lines by Mr. 
Clement Scott, but not at a single sentence written by Mr. 
William Archer. There is one feature about the theatres 
which London Society does enjoy — it really has nothing 
to do with the theatres, but the theatres give it local 
colour, as a novelist would say. This is the " Supper 
after the Theatres" idea. And here again the big restau- 
rants come in once more with their lavish and luxurious, 
if not exactly disinterested, hospitality. 

In the next chapter you shall be given some closer 
views, some less furtive peeps at the Night Side of Lon- 
don high life. For the present pray imagine you have 
been flattered by receiving an invitation to the Duchess of 
Blankshire's ball, and that you are now among her Grace's 
guests, of whom there are so many that it is somewhat dif- 
ficult for you to get about. You came in excellent temper, 
for just before you started off for the Duchess's mansion 
— it should be called a palace, but that is not the English 




CROWD ON THE GREAT STAIRCASE. 



"IN SOCIETY" 75 

way — }■( >u remarked to your friends at the Club, who you 
knew had not been asked, with an irritating!}' cHstinct 
voice that }-ou supposed you " must g"o, though l)alls are 
sucli a bore"; you arc therefore well aware that you are 
enxicd and sincerely detested by the men less fortunate 
than yourself — and this is to have succeeded! Each of 
them would like to tell you with conviction that your 
going to the ball, or your not going, won't make the 
slightest difference to anybody on earth, but they haven't 
the courage. So off you drive — perhaps a 
little after eleven o'clock — in high spirits and Duchess ol 
very greatly tickled with yourself. You wait ^'''"''''^ba'','^ 
your turn in the street in the long line of car- 
riages mo\'ing by fits and starts up to her Grace's door, 
and if your patience (much improved by that little speech 
of yours at the Club) is not too severely tried, you will in 
time descend and walk under a red canopy brilliantly lit 
with many twinkling electric lamps into the hall, which 
is filled with floAvers and flunkies, to say nothing of people 
like yourself arriving all the wdiile, and is also brilliantly 
illuminated with pink and silver lights. Your fellow- 
guests wear a pleased look on top of their clothes — this is 
part of the game of manners. Having deposited your hat 
and cape, you join the crowd on the great staircase 
(p. yT,), in itself a thing of pride, and push or are pushed 
upwards to shake her Grace by the hand. Should she 
happen to know you, you may get a word or two from 



^6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

her, but as it is much more hkely that she hasn't the ghost 
of an idea who you are, you will pass silently by, and soon 
get lost in the crowd. It's a case of not being able to see 
the trees for the wood ; one can't find one's friends in the 
crush — indeed, unless you are either very tall or particu- 
larly self-assertive, you may see hardly anybody. There 
is an awful story of a little man who got hemmed or 
penned into a corner of one of her Grace's rooms, and 
who remained there in a state of semi-suffocation until 
the rush down to supper mercifully put an end to his suf- 
ferings. It is therefore no bad plan to keep " circulating" 
on every opportunity which presents itself. 

It may be that you are a dancing man — a somewhat 
rare bird in these days. Her Grace's ballroom is the finest 
in London, and the music is insinuating and inviting — 
" Will you, won't you, come and join the dance?" You 
will — at least you would if you could, but you can't. The 
floor is already covered, and movement is difficult. A 
few couples are really dancing — wherever that is the case, 
you may bet with much safety that the lady is line belle 
Americainc ; but the majority of the dancers are mere 
revolving figures, confined within a narrow orbit ; if they 

attempt to get outside of it their career is im- 
Dance "' ^ mediately stopped by more revolving couples, 

who frown down the eccentricity of the other 
dancers. This is how it is in the waltzes. Your English- 
man does better in a romping polka or in swinging barn- 



"IN SOCIETY" 



17 



dance, for these are things in which brawn and muscle tell 
far more than skill, and the English girl has a weakness 
— a family feeling — for Ijrawn and muscle. And in the 
Lancers — intended originally to be one of the most grace- 
ful and delightful of measures — you will also see a won- 
derful display of agility. Agility, of course, has its 
points, but it is not always beautiful ; still, there it is ! 
Having taken in so much of this, you perhaps come to 
the conclusion that the 
best way to enjoy a 
dance is to sit it out. 
So you take your part- 
ner and lead her out 
of the crush, and make 
for the stairs, per- 
haps, or for some cosy 
nook or other where 
you may recover your 
breath, and say such 
things as are wont to be said on such occasions, wonder- 
ing silently but persistently if you will be able to get any 
supper. 

Supper is a matter of prime importance. Her Grace's 
mansion is a vast place, and the supper ( if you can only 
get a chance to reach it) is sure to be excellent. But then 
her guests are legion; how are they all to be fed? If 
you are a really great personage, then, of course, you need 




78 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

have no misgivings. The Dnchess will see that you are 
taken care of. But if you belong to the crowd of people 
who are not great in any way, 3-ou will have to wait till 
" Your Betters" are served, and take your turn by and by. 
It is just possible that you may have to scram- 

SuppL-r. 

ble for your food — such things are not alto- 
gether unknown even at the Duchess of Blankshire's 
entertainments. Still, in process of time you will be fed 
and you will have your thirst quenched. Then back for 
an hour or two to the ballroom again, or to some other 
part of the house. After what you assure her Grace with 
a vacuous smile has been such a pleasant evening, you go 
off again at two or three in the morning, remarkably glad 
that it is all over. Later, you will gabble at the Club 
about the affair, and remark what a success it was ! What 
a crowd ! Everybody was there ! The dear Duchess does 
those things so well ! Never had a more ripping time ! 
You fairly tumble over yourself as you tell the other 
" chaps" about it. 



CHAPTER V 

STILL " IN society" 

" At the Blenheim an agreeable atmosphere of polite rakishness 
prevails which is peculiarly attractive to innocent women." 

Percy White, The West End. 

Here are some typical scenes. 

On one evening yon shall dine at the Cecil. Later, yon 
shall take a look in at the Empire or the Alhaml)ra or the 
Palace. That will be enough for one evening. If you 
respect your chef and the dinner he has provided for you 
(in other words, if you respect yourself), you will find 
the evening sufficiently well filled up by the dinner alone, 
but it is possible, if you are an energetic person, to take in 
both. A dinner at the Cecil will not be unlike a dinner at 
any other of the great hotels or restaurants, 

Dinner at 

and it is selected for that reason ; should you the Hotel 

• 1 - 1 -1 1 • r • Cecil. 

Wish tor more detailed mformation on the 
subject of restaurant dinners, then }OU are recommended 
to read seme such book as that of Colonel Newnham- 
Davis on Dinners and Dining. The Cecil is now, with its 
hundreds of rooms, one of the largest hotels, if not the 
largest, in the world. In common with its neighbour, the 
Savoy, it commands one of the finest views of its kind in 

79 



8o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

any capital of the globe — the view of the Thames Em- 
bankment and the Thames itself. But as you probably 
won't dine much before eight o'clock, you may not be able 
to see it ; at most the river will likely be indicated by 
numerous lights, to say nothing of huge electric adver- 
tisements. You ascend to the noble dining-room, your 
thoughts, however, intent on dinner, not scenery. Your 
footsteps are inaudible on the thick carpets — the whole 
atmosphere of the place is one of luxury. Here are seren- 
ity, peace, repose. The air is perfumed with the scent of 
flowers. The room is full, but not too full, of small tables, 
and on the tables are softly-glowing shaded lights. And 
the men and women who are dining, or about to dine, are 
all well-dressed, well-bred — at least, most of them. They 
are of all nationalities under the sun, but the majority of 
them are American. The dinner itself is not an English 
dinner — it is French. You can dine sumptuously for half 
a guinea, or you can pile up a monumental bill by order- 
ing () la carte. And the wines are just what you have a 
mind (and a purse) to pay for. Everything, you will 
find, is done for you delicately, thoughtfully, well. You 
are given plenty of time to study the menu — and your 
fellow-guests ; you talk to your friends with quiet enjoy- 
ment. And if you are wise you will eschew the eternal 
platitudes, as they do not improve digestion. 

Well, you have had your liqueur and your cofifee and 
your cigar or cigarette : it is now ten o'clock, you reflect. 



flT-TML 
EnPIPE • 




B,K^DV^/~<f 



"lilMl')?^ " 



STILL "IN SOCIETY" 83 

and there are a couple of hours at least before bed-time. 
\'()U have a liansom called for you, and you are driven to 
one of the three higher-class music-Iialls, if th;it is your 
wish, or to one of the others, where }-ou will jjcrliaps be 
e\en l)etter entertained but at somewhat less cost. At or 
about a (juarter past ten the best " turn" of tlie evening- is 
on at the Halls. To sav the truth, there is nothing very 
strikingly new to l)e seen at the halls, but then 
is there anvthing new under the sk^'? Per- . " ,,'^ 

o . music-halls. 

haps the current feature of the show which is 
" going strong" is a dance, or a song, or a combination of 
both, or some juggle or other- — you have seen all this kind 
of thing, you tell yourself somewhat gratuitously, for you 
knew what to expect before you came, a hundred times 
l)efore, but all the same you look on, and you know vou 
will do so again. The turn over, you get up' from vour 
stall, go up the stairs to the "Promenade"" — and open 
your eyes very wide. Here you will certainly see a crowd 
of men and women, and you will hardly require to be told 
wh.o the ladies are and what they are doing here. The 
men smoke, drink, talk. The women stand or move 
about, their wandering glances keen and iiKjuisitive. 
Here and there these painted ladies are seated, but their 
eyes rove restlessl}- always until they fasten on some indi- 
vidual who appears willing to respond. It is a strange 
spectacle — this exchange, this traffic, this Fair in Frail 
Flesh; but this, too, is no new thing; indeed, in one way 



84 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



or another, it also belongs to the category, it is to be 
feared, of the eternal platitudes. " Well, say, what d'you 
think o' the Show?" " Same old Show!" By the way, 







there is one thing you should not fail to notice, and that 
is the general high excellence of the music provided by 
the orchestras in the Halls. 

Another evening you dine early, for you are going to 



STILL "IN SOCIETY" 85 

the opening night of the Opera Season at Covent Garden. 
This is always one of tlie chief events of the season — to 
man}' it is the event. There is plenty of music of all kinds 
to he heard in London all the year round, but the Opera at 
Covent Garden is its highest expression. The Opera 
House itself is not an impressive building, comparing 
none too favourably with the opera-houses of Paris, or 
Vienna, or even New York. But on the open- 

Opera at 

ino- nieht of the season, or on a night when a covem 

° * Garden. 

great singer is to appear, there is no more bril- 
liant sight to be seen in any land than the interior of Cov- 
ent Garden Opera House. Long before the hour an- 
nounced for the curtain to be raised carriages in a row 
half a mile in length stand, or slowly cr^iwl towards the 
door under the portico, their movements carefully 
guarded and regulated by the police. Some minutes be- 
fore the curtain goes up the auditorium is packed with as 
manv great, distinguished, or rich people as it can hold. 
It is a wonderful society gathering. In the boxes you 
shall see rank, beauty, fashion ; fair faces, with eyes flash- 
ing or languorous, above dazzling shoulders ; the gleam 
of diamonds, the glitter of jewels, the flirting of fans; 
confections the most artistic and superb in dress and cos- 
tume de Paris — their wearers set ofT by the plain, undis- 
tinguished evening attire of the men, as if by the most 
.splendid of foils. And in the stalls it is much the same. 
Here, in brief, is Everybod)' that is Anybody — peers, 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



peeresses, statesmen, great ladies, diplomats, politicians, 
high financiers, merchant princes — tout Ic nioiidc ct sa 
fcmiiic. And amongst them it is just possible there are 
some genuine lovers of music. 

You are so much taken up with looking about you at 
the brilliant ensemble that you pay no heed at first to the 
orchestra tuning up. But you do notice the conductor 
enter, and, baton in hand, bow to the audience. Presently 
the curtain is raised, and discloses the com- 
oplra. pany in the costumes of the opera of the even- 

ing. The prima donna comes a little step for- 
ward ; every one rises while she sings the first verse of 
the National Anthem ; the other singers join her in sing- 



ing " God Save the King." Then everybody 



having 



engaged in this exercise, sits down, 
his sentiment of loyalty gratified. 
In a minute or two more the opera 
begins — it is rarely a new opera ; 
the old favourites are preferred, 
always with the exception of Wag- 
nerian opera, which has come to 
stay. (It is ]\Iark Twain who has 
assured the world that the works of Wagner contain far 
more music than you might suspect on hearing them per- 
formed.) At the close of the acts the chief singers, the 
conductor, the manager, and perhaps a few others (but 
not the scene-shifters, as it has somewhere been menda- 




STILL " IN SOCIETY" 87 

ciously asserted ) are summoned before the curtain, and 
vigorous!}- ai)plau(le(l. The social side of the thing is to 
be seen in \isits paid from box to box in the intervals, and 
the smoking foyer is a centre, where men meet and com- 
pare notes, though it is tolerablv certain the notes will not 
be concerned so much with the music as with the people 
who are present. " Isn't Lady So-and-so looking re- 
markabl}- well to-night? Wonder how she does it! 
She's fift}- if she's a day! Wonderful ! And look at little 

Laura ! She's another wonder. Did you see he was 

in the box? Well, if her husband can stand it, it's all 
right. I suppose." And so on and so on. Somewhere 
about midnight the opera comes to an end. Perhaps you 
go home, or perhaps you go to supper at somebody else's, 
for there are some superb supper-parties given after the 
opera's over. Or you may go to one of the clubs, where 
you will ha\-e something to eat, and exchange more gossip 
alxiut your neighbours. A wit once said that the most 
interesting things in the world to cats were other cats ; 
the most interesting things in the world to men and 
women are other men and women, and so you talk and 
talk and talk ! 

.\ third evening you dine early again, and go to one of 
the theatres: it is a " first-night," a premiere. Should it 
be a reall}" great occasion — the production of a new play 
by Pinero, or the reappearance in title-roles of favourite 
actors and actresses — you will assuredly find yourself in 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



some of the best company in England. For there is in 

London a small regiment of industrious and indefatigable 

" first-nighters." nearly all clever people, and 

^u!^K many of them distinguished in art or letters or 

nights. ' o 

in some other way, who would almost endure 
anything rather than miss a " first-night" at the theatre. 
Amongst the audience will be a large number of those 

strange and fearsome folk called 
dramatic critics, and if you will 
go and stand in the foyer be- 
tween the acts, and listen to the 
remarks of these curious people, 
you will be not a little enter- 
tained. But should you be a 
friend of one of the actors you 
may listen with some fear and 
trembling, for on the verdicts of the foyer much of the 
success or failure of the piece depends. 

Of recent years there has been a great multiplication 
of theatres in London, not only in central London, where 
you will find the so-styled West End houses, but all over 
the metropolis. And in the theatres of Kensington and 
Fulham and Clapham and other districts of the town you 
will see as good acting and as well-mounted pieces as you 
will see anywhere — and you will see them for far less 
money. For it is the one rule to which there is no excep- 
tion, that belonging to the West End, being in the West 




STILL " IN SOCIETY" 89 

End, biniui^" in the West End, doing anything whatsoever 
in the West End, will cost you more than it will anywhere 
else on earth. If on theatrical pleasure bent, you will 
find it no bad scheme to dri\'e down, sav, to the 

Non 

Coronet, and spend your evening there for a west End 

theatres. 

change. Besides, you will behold other classes 
of people altogether. For. there Suburbia, which is much 
in evidence in the West End in the afternoons at mat- 
inees and " Pops," goes to the play of an evening. And 
it is more and more getting into the habit of frequenting 
the playhouses situated in its midst, and less and less of 
going to the West End theatres. As a great treat it goes 
occasionally to the Haymarket, or Wyndham's, or the 
Garrick, or some other of the central houses ; it makes a 
point of marching in its families to the Pantomime at 
Drury Lane at Christmas time; but for the most part it 
is well content with its local theatres. The East End 
theatre proper and music-hall belong to a different class, 
and you shall see something of them by and by. 

If you have been to a " first-night" at one of the central 
houses, the odds are that you are one of a partv, and that 
a supper at the Carlton will appropriately wind up the 
evening. If you happen to be the host you will have taken 
care to apprise the authorities of the hotel of your inten- 
tion to sup, and have secured a table; if you have not 
done so in advance you may make the unpleasant discov- 
ery that you cannot be accommodated, for often in the 



90 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

season, and indeed, sometimes out of it, people have to be 
turned away. But you suffer no unhappy rebuff of this 
sort, for your table has been engaged — you are expected. 

It may be the table is in a line with the door 
fhTc^rUon leading into the great hall, where after supper 

you will sit for a few minutes and have your 
coffee and last drink and smoke ; but if you sit at this par- 
ticular table, you have the advantage of seeing the guests 
as they enter, and in this way you get to know the com- 
pany you are in. The supper is prix-Hxc and is good ; 
the wines, too, are choice. It may be questioned if there 
is any place in the world where anything is better done 
than at the Carlton (particularly in its grill-room), 
though Prince's and the Imperial run it close. This sup- 
per is a cheerful function. You are in an atmosphere of 
soft lights, sweet music, pretty women — add to it all the 
effective green background of the decoration of the wall. 
There is the pleasant hum of conversation, and the voices 
are not shrill or loud. The waiters move about noise- 
lessly. Everything goes on velvet. And the people you 
see are all interesting: there a well-known man of fash- 
ion, here a celebrated actress in a ravishing gown ; there 
a gallant soldier back from the Front, here an authoress, 
a lady-playwright, of renown ; there a great lady, a prin- 
cess, here a man of genius whose fame is world-wide. 
And the eternal human comedy-tragedy is being played 
for all it is worth. You read stories into the smiling 



STILL "IN SOCIETY" 93 

faces ; you make guesses, vague or clear ; you build up 
little romances, see hints of little ironies; you indulge in 
pleasant little dreams or glance away from what may 
become a tragedy. In a word, you are looking on at 
another phase of the Show. 

Still another evening, and you are at Prince's, but on 
this occasion you have not gone to sup or dine, but to a 
dance in the Galleries above the restaurant. The party is 
given by a friend of yours, perhaps, and he is giving this 
entertainment (which you may be sure will cost him the 
proverbial Pretty Penny) to celebrate the twenty-first 
birthday of his daughter. It is a pretty attention on the 
part of Papa, but his pretty daughter well deserves it. 
The dance begins at an hour which allows you to dine 
comfortably before going to the Galleries, and when you 
get there you have the privilege of being presented to the 
young lady who is the Heroine of the Occasion, and who 
receives your congratulations with a charming smile. 
Perhaps you ask for the honour of a dance, but 

A dance in 

miss, bless her ! has to dance with so many Prince's 

CTalleries. 

that your chance of a polite refusal is a good 
one. Well, there are others, for the picture-lined walls 
enclose an array of living pictures a great deal more inter- 
esting than the works of the painter-fellows, however 
excellent they may be. The band strikes up, and the 
dancers (you soon see this is a dance at which people do 
really dance) begin to swing and sway to the dreamy 



94 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

measures of the waltz. If you do not dance, or cannot 
dance, you can sit out in other rooms where palms and 
other innocuous things will give you a certain shelter — 
if the circumstances, that is. suggest that a little conceal- 
ment is not a bad idea. Then, all the evening, dance after 
dance, with an interval of an hour or so for a supper to 
which the whole company can sit down in peace and com- 
fort, and without being mobbed and ragged to death. 
This, you see. is an almost, or an altogether, perfect 
dance; it is not a great scramble of an affair such as the 
Duchess of Blankshire's was. It is a dance of the debu- 
tante, so to speak ; a dance of youth and pleasure in life's 
gay morn ; but it is well done, comfortably done ; and 
you are grateful. As for the young lady herself, you 
think, as you go over the scene afterwards, of Thack- 
eray's lines- — 

" She comes ! — she's here ! — she's past ! 
And heaven go with her !" 



CHAPTER VI 

NOT " IN society'' 

" The damp, river-scented earth sHpped under his feet. The blare 
of a steam clarion, and the bang of a steam-driven drum, sounded, 
and the naphtha lamps of the merry-go-round and the circus 
gleamed through the fog." — David Christie Murray, Despair's 
Last Journey. 

Like all great cities London is a city of the most as- 
tounding contrasts. The same night which sees the pretty 
birthday-dance at Prince's, the charming supper-party at 
the Carlton, and the like, also sees the cheap Soho after- 
the-theatre restaurant supper, the Shilling Hop, the 
Penny Gaff, and their like. Not that these last-named 
expressions of the Night Side of London should be mixed 
up indiscriminately, for in these, as in most things, there 
are degrees. For instance, there is a world of difference 
between the Masked Ball (of which more anon) and the 
innocent Shilling Hop (which, too, you shall be taken to 
by and by). But you must now allow yourself to go 
from the top to the bottom of society. And as you de- 
scend this long ladder, you shall pause here and there. 
The transition from high to low is not so abrupt as many 
imagine; indeed, there are many steps. Take as an 
example the typical cheap restaurant of Soho. The 

95 



96 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

highest class of Soho restaurant, such as Kettner's, is of 
course very good ; there are no cosier private dining- 
rooms in ah London than those you find at Kettner's. 
But Kettner's has for years past ceased to be 
2°^'^"^'"^'" a cheap restaurant; its prices now range with 
those of the greatest restaurants. No, the 
typical Soho restaurant is that which gives a three- 
shilling, a half-crown, a two-shilling, or an eighteen- 
penny dinner, and a supper, after the theatre, for a shil- 
ling or a little more. And though you may suspect that 
some of the dishes on the menu are fearfully and wonder- 
fully made, still these dinners and suppers are simply 
" amazing value." 

Apart from such places as Kettner's — by the way, it 
began by being a cheap restaurant like its humbler neigh- 
bours ; its fortune, it is said, was made when it was dis- 
covered by a former editor of the Times — the highest- 
priced of the ordinary Soho dinners is no more than three 
shillings at the Florence or half a crown, as at the Italic. 
But you can do very well at such restaurants as the Bou- 
logne for two shillings, or at Guermani's for eighteen- 
pence. Two or three of these restaurants have a reputa- 
tion which is almost world-wide — such as the 
dh^ne^r°^° Rochc. Again, there is the Gourmets — where 
you may dine very cheaply a la carte, begin- 
ning with potage bonne feinine, which will cost you two- 
pence a plate. And so on. It will pay you very well to 



NOT " IN SOCIETY" 



97 



spend an evening, say once a fortnight, in exploring the 
Soho restaurants. And not only is the food good, but the 
people you see are interesting. Here you may certainly 




stud}' types of men and women you will hardly behold 
outside of this district. And then look at the menu. It 
begins with Iiors (fcvuzi'cs •z'c/ru'.s-— sardines, smoked her- 
ring, anchovies, olives, tomato-salad. Then, your choice 

7 



y 



98 THE NIGHT. SIDE OF LONDON 

of clear or thick soups^and the soups (Heaven only 
knows wliat's in them !) of Soho are simply, marvellously 
excellent. Now follows the fish-course, and here, alas ! 
the Soho restaurant does not always shine, and this, it 
may be guessed, is because fish is never cheap in London. 
Then an entree, after which comes the " Farinasse," 
which is usually maccaroni in one form or another. In 
some restaurants, notably Guermani's, the maccaroni is 
worth the whole price of the dinner. And next there is a 
slice of the fillet or a piece of chicken, or rather poulct roti, 
which Du Maurier always declared was C|uite a different 
thing from roast-chicken. Finally sweets, cheese, fruit. 
And all for two shillings or eighteenpence ! As for the 
wines, you can have what you are willing to pay for. 
But it may be said, that as the Soho establishments are 
much frequented by foreigners from wine-drinking coun- 
tries, who presumably know good wine, you probably get 
tolerable stufif at an exceedingly moderate price. Espe- 
cially is this the case with respect to such Italian wines as 
Capri, Barolo, and Chianti. All the Franco-Italian res- 
taurants provide special after-the-theatre suppers at from 
half a crown to eighteenpence, which are quite as amazing 
as their dinners. 

And this leads to the remark that nearly all the restau- 
rants of London are in the hands of foreigners, principally 
Italians. Moreover, these foreign restaurants are spread- 
ing all over London ; they are no longer confined to Soho. 



NOT " IN SOCIETY" 



99 



The 
East End 
eating- 
house. 



You will find iheni in W'hitcchapel, in the Duruugh, in 
Putney, in X^ew Cross, and so on. If you care to d(j so, 
\-ou shall dine at one of these phices in the south-east chs- 
trict, and spend the evening afterwards at a typical East 
End entertainment, say, in Deptford. Or, if 
}-ou prefer to get yourself still more cii rapport 
with your surroundings, you can take a seat in 
a little box-like stall in an *' eating-house" — a 
much humbler kind of thing than the foreign restaurant 
— peculiar to the locality, where you shall dine (dine, 
please remember) on a 
twopenny pie, or, if you 
will venture to go the 
" whole elephant," off a 
bowl of stewed eel. Your 
twopeimy pie will be of 
astonishingly generous 
proportions — to a hun- 
gry man it will seem a 
feast. And as for the 
dish of stewed eel — why, 
there is no delicacy of 



the Carlton grill-room to 




T Vv^O - 



be compared with it ; at 

least, that is what your East End epicure believes; but 

then he knows the stewed eel passing well and the Carlton 



grill nut at all. 
L.ofC. 



loo THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Then, having feasted at a charge of a few pence, you 
go out into the swarming streets. And, to appreciate 
properly all this aspect of the Night Side of London, you 
must choose a Saturday night, when, in very truth, the 
streets do swarm with people. Wet or dry, it hardly mat- 
ters, the thoroughfares are black with people shopping 
and gossiping. Both sides of the streets are lined with 
shops, before many of which stand salesmen vociferously 
calling attention to the excellence and low price of their 
wares. In front of the butchers' stalls, in particular, you 
shall see men eagerly addressing the crowd, while their 

constant shouts of " Buy, buy, buy !" rend the 
buy""' "^' ^^^- " '^ve it at yer own price !" they cry. 

" Given awiy ! Given awiy ! Buy, buy, buy ! 
Buy, buy!" It is a sort of Babel — but it all means 
business. And if you were to stay here to watch 
for two or three hours — till half-past eleven, when the 
very very poor come forward in the hope of getting bar- 
gains, and listened to the deafening clamour, you would 
think business impossible. But there is a great deal done 
for all that. You will be irresistibly reminded of the cat- 
story, in which the father said, in reply to the fears ex- 
pressed by his little boy that there would soon be very few 
pussies left, " 'cos last night I heard 'em all swearin' and 
fightin', and bitin', and killin' each other on the roof" — 
" No, no, little son, the only result of all that noise you 
heard will be more cats, not fewer !" 



NOT " IN SOCIETY"' loi 

And as you walk along- you come to a sort of alley, up 
which move many figures; they are going to see "the 
sh(nv" — an East End show. And you follow in their 
wake. .\s vou enter the alley you see on your left a huge 
poster. whcrc(>n is depicted an enormous elephant, and 
vou are at once taken with the picture of the colossal 
beast. Naturally, you expect to see him in the menagerie 
bevond, which is one of the chief features of the show to 
which you have invited yourself. It is only when you are 
returning this way again, after having been in the 
menagerie, in which you have not seen the elephant, that 
vou look at the poster a second time, and now you observe 
that the elephant is stated as being on exhibition at the 
Agricultural Hall, and not here at all ! But " how's that" 
for advertising? The poster of this poster is evidently a 
bit of a wag. Or, is it that he is in collusion with the pro- 
prietors of the menagerie up the yard? You move for- 
ward under the flaring arches of gaslights for a short dis- 
tance, and in a moment or two you stand in a yard of 
some size, brilliantly illuminated. As Mr. Murray re- 
marks in the quotation with which this chapter begins, 
" the l)lare of a steam clarion, and the bang of 
a steam-(lri\en drum, sounded, and the naph- go-rou"d! 
tha lamps of the merry-go-round and the circus 
gleamed through the fog." But there are differences be- 
tween Mr. ^Murray's picture of the show at Reading, 
which he described, and that now before your eyes. For, 



I02 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

here, the merry-go-round boasts electric lamps instead of 
naphtha, a menagerie takes the place of the circus, and 
there is no fog — though perhaps the night is dark, and 
there is a drizzle in the air. The merry-go-round is cer- 
tainly a handsome affair, and is handsomely supported by 
the crowd, who mount upon its " fiery, long-tailed snort- 
ers" with all the will in the world. And these steeds, 
mark vou, do not only go " wound and w^ound," but also 
move up and down with their riders. " All life-size, and 
twice as natural !" And then the music, the Cyclopean 
music of the steam clarion ! And the thunder of the 
steam-driven drum ! And all for a penny a ride ! Will 
you have one? It will perhaps make you seasick? you 
answer. Well, there's something in that. So you look 
at something else. 

All round the capacious yard, except on the side wdiere 
stands the menagerie, and the other side where is the big 
engine which drives the hobby-horses arrangement, are 
ranged various devices for extracting pennies from your 

pockets. They are mostly of the three-shies- 
a^enm-r''"^^ a-pcuuy Variety, and a spice of skill (or would 

you call it " luck"?) enters into them all. If 
you are successful a prize rewards you. You are anxious 
to enter into the spirit of the thing, and you begin by in- 
vesting a penny in three rings, which you endeavour to 
throw in such a w-ay as to land them round the handle of 
a knife stuck into the wall. It looks easy, and you go into 



NOT ''IN SOCIETY" 1O3 

the business with a Hght heart. But — but you don't suc- 
ceed. Another penny — you try again, and again yOu are 
defeated. What 'O ! Another penny — and this time you 
accept defeat, and move on to the next stall, where another 
penny gives you the privilege of trying to roll three balls 
into certain holes with numbers attached thereunto. 
Should you score twenty you will win a cigar. But you 
do no more than score nine. Undiscouraged. or perhaps 
encouraged by this fact, you spend another penny, and 
another, and another — but you don't get the cigar, and 
it is well for you that you don't ! For there are cigars and 
cigars. On you go, and next you try your hand at the 
cocoa-nuts, or the skittles, or the clay-pipes, or in the 
shooting-alleys. And so on and on — until your stock of 
pennies and patience is exhausted. Then you turn to the 
menagerie. 

Your interest in this particular show ought to be 
greatly heightened by the fact that on the platform out- 
side it there is displayed the announcement, " Last 
Night," but you have already heard that it is always the 
" Last Night" with this entertainment, and therefore you 
are not wildly excited. The front of the menagerie 
exhibits several extraordinary representations of scenes 
in which lions, tigers, and other ferocious beasts appear to 
be about to devour their tamers. As you gaze on these 
blood-curdling pictures, the showman in a tremendous 
voice bids you " Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen !" 



I04 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

And you do walk up, and soon you are inside the place, 
and your protesting nostrils ask you why you insult them 

in this way — for your first impression of the 
menagerie. menagerie is that it is one vast offensive smell. 

Having got somewhat accustomed to this 
odour, you go round with the crowd, and see a fine young 
lion in his cage, a couple of lionesses in a second, a black 
bear and a hyena in a third, half a dozen wolves in a 
fourth, some dejected-looking monkeys and a cat of the 
domestic variety in a fifth, a kangaroo in another, and so 
on. There are eight or ten cages in all, and certainly you 
can't in reason expect much more for twopence, which is 
the charge for admission. 

On one side is an opening into a side-show, " price one 
penny." A man, standing on a box at the entrance to it, 
cries out in a loud voice that in the side-show are to be 
seen three of the "greatest novelties in the whole world." 
One of them, he tells you, is a petrified woman, the sec- 
ond is the smallest kangaroo in existence, and the third 
is the largest rat alive. A curious little collection, is it 
not ? At any rate it draws an audience to the speaker on 

the box. In a minute or two he passes into 
^de-show ^^^^ side-show, and you go with him. First, 

he shows you the tiny kangaroo, a greyish- 
white, squirming creature, with long hind legs and a very 
long thick tail ; it was born in the menagerie, the show- 
man declares. Next, you are asked to gaze upon the 




A TYPICAL EAST-END SHOWMAN. 



NOT "IN SOCIETY" 107 

petrified woman. You see a gruesome object in the 
leathery brown skin. " A httle over a hundred years 
ago," savs the showman in a solemn tone. " this woman, 
a sister of mercy, was walking about just like you or me. 
(We weren't walking about— but that's a detail.) She 
had gone with a rescue-party into a mine in Wales, but 
she herself was lost. When her body was found years 
later in the mine, it was discovered in the petrified condi- 
tion in which you now see it!" He invites any lady or 
gentleman in the audience to touch the Thing, but no one 
is in the least anxious to do so. Then he moves on to 
another box, pulls up a curtain, and discloses a handsome 
bright-eved animal, the size of a fox, w'hich he assures 
you is the largest rat in the \vorld ; it tvas " lately cap- 
tured 1)}' a soldier in the Transvaal, and brought to this 
countrv ; secured by us at enormous expense!" 

But now the celebrated lion-tamer is about to give his 
performance in the menagerie, and you press back into 
the main show. The lion-tamer, attired in what looks 
like a cycling-suit which had seen much better days, whip 
in hand, enters the cage where are the wolves, and puts 
them through a few simple movements. They 
appear to be very tame indeed, and behave non-tamen 
much in the way dogs would. But the next 
performance is quite another kind of thing. The lion- 
tamer, it is announced, is to try to force an entrance into 
the cage of the young lion, " only three and a half years 



io8 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 






old — the age at which lions are most ferocious," says the 
orator with meaning. He continues, " Now, ladies and 
gentlemen, I must tell you that the 
lion-tamer enters this cage at the 
risk of his life. I must request 
you all to keep silence, so that the 
lion will not be excited more than 
is necessary. Remember the lion- 
tamer is in peril of his life. He 
will try to enter the cage. Should 
he succeed, I will ask you to giye 
him a hearty cheer. He is risking 
his life!" He concludes his ora- 
tion gloomily. All of which 
makes, as it was intended to make, 
a yast impression on the audience. 
What follows deserves a paragraph to itself — it is re- 
markable, to say the least of it, that is, if it is not all a 
" put-up job." Two or three attendants, armed with 
things that resemble pikes, range themselves in front of 
the cage. Perhaps there are some hot irons at their feet. 
The lion-tamer endeavours to enter by a door on the 
left, but the lion springs to meet him wuth a 
roar, thrusts his paw^ against the door, and the 
tamer is beaten back. Next, he essays a door on the 
right, but the lion once more out-manoeuvres him, and 
the tamer remains on the outside. There are murmurs 




The lion. 



NOT "IN SOCIETY" 109 

of joyful excitement in the crowd, and again they are 
entreated to keep quiet. The tamer now tries the first 
door again, Imt the Hon. after a short yet determined 
struggle, prevails, and tlie tamer is defeated. Then he 
tries the second door again, but with no better success. 
By this time the lion — he is really a fine, handsome, even 
noble specimen — appears to be in a wild rage; his roars 
fill the place; he snarls fiercely; he bites at the bars of 
his cage. The people stand patiently, wondering what is 
to be the next move of the lion-tamer. It is soon revealed. 
In the middle of the bars of the cage there is a narrow 
aperture, and through this slit is thrust an arrangement 
of thin boards, which nearly, but not qui::e, divides the 
cage in two. The lion is penned in on one side; the 
tamer enters by the door farthest away; the board is 
withdrawn; the tamer cracks his whip; the lion springs 
at him with a growl, but the great beast flashes past the 
tamer. Again the whip is cracked, and the king of beasts 
runs round the cage once or twice. When his back is 
turned, the tamer makes a quick exit, and all is over. The 
whole thing, whether trick or not. is dramatic. The 
cheers ^^•hich had been asked for in advance are now given 
with a will. And thereafter the tamer goes into the cage 
of the two lionesses, but after the last performance this 
seems comparatively tame and stupid, for the lionesses 
are as docile as cats. The band plays " God save the 
King." and the people flock out. They certainly have 



no THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

had their pennies' worth. By the way. one of the httle 
graceful attentions paid you by this show, so to speak, is 
that *' God save the King" is played about every quarter 
of an hour — to give those inside a hint, doubtless, that 
they are not expected to stop all night in the menagerie, 
and to encourage those hesitating outside to go in at once, 
or they will lose their last chance. Of course, the East 
End menagerie is not the West End " Hippodrome," but 
you think of the difference in price. Not that here in 
Deptford you will always see a menagerie. Sometime? it 
will be a genuine " Penny Gaff," or theatre, to which the 
admission is one penny; if you want a seat (a "stall") 
you will have to pay twopence or even threepence. And 
here you will be vastly entertained. There are always 
two plays on the programme : one a tragedy, the other a 
farce. " To-night will be presented the blood-curdling 
drama of ' Maria Martin, or the Murder in the Red 
Barn.' " Or the play may be " Three-Fingered Bob, or 
the Dumb Man of Manchester." And here you shall have 
veritable villains of the deepest dye, heroines of unimagi- 
nable virtue and loveliness, heroes — the whole old stale 
bag o' tricks, in fact. And as for the audience, 

f, never was there one which so thoroughly de- 
penny gan. o J 

tested villains, and so whole-heartedly adored 
lovely and virtuous heroines. How they enjoy the com- 
plete defeat of the former ! — you can tell that by the en- 
thusiastic way in which the crowed hisses them ; and how 



NOT "IN SOCIETY" iii 

they deliglit in tlie final triumph of the heroines! It mat- 
ters not that (hn-ing the whole time the performance is 
going- on the audience has heen eating fried fish, or suck- 
ing oranges, or cracking nuts, or otherwise attending to 
its inner man. Nay, these light refreshments are all part 
and parcel of the entertainment. You can see " Lizer" 
turn from the villain dying on the stage to the bit of fish 
she has in her hand with fresh relish and vigour — because 
the black-hearted scoundrel is meeting his just reward. 
And then the farce! Its subject not infrequently deals 
with the countryman just come to London. He travels 
to the big town in a smock, and he carries over his shoul- 
der his small belongings in a red cotton handkerchief. 
Of course, he is as green as his own fields, and how he is 
laughed at by those knowing East Enders ! 

Another time you may find the Penny Gaff has been 
replaced by Wax Works, or a Ghost Show, or something 
else. But it is in these, and such as these, that one phase 
of the Night Side of the East End of London expresses 
itself. Now for another — the East End music-hall. 



CHAPTER VII 

AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 

" Let youth, more decent in their follies, scofif 
The nauseous scene, and hiss thee reeling off." 

Steele, TJie Tatler, No. 266. 

The music-hall must be considered a chief feature of 
the Night Side of London ; it is certainly one of the most 
popular, whether in the West End or the East. Its lead- 
ing comedian, Mr. Dan Leno, has been honoured by a 
'' command" of the King. It is a far cry, however, from 
the humour and whimsicalities of " good old Dan" to the 
comicalities of the typical East End music-hall star. But 
it matters not whether the hall is within a stone's throw 
of Piccadilly or outside the radius, it is ever a popular 
institution. One of the sights of the town is the long 

queue of people standing outside the Alham- 
queur"'"^ bra, the Empire, the Palace, the Tivoli. the 

" Pav.," the Oxford, and other halls, until the 
doors leading to pit and gallery are thrown open. The 
queue often has to wait for a considerable time, sometimes 
in the pouring rain, but it does so with wonderful patience 



AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 113 

and good-humour — the wait beuig frequently enhvened 
bv the strains of the nigger minstrel, or some other open- 
air entertainer. To-night you shall go to the Palace of 
Varieties at Greenwich. Last night you were at Dept- 
ford. and now you travel half a mile or more further 
south-eastward. Perhaps you begin this particular even- 
ing with a fish-dinner at the famous Ship, just opposite 
Greenwich Hospital, and though the Ship is not quite the 
fashionable resort it once was, you may do a great deal 
worse than dine there. 

You make your way to the Palace of Varieties, Green- 
wich. You are. perhaps, a trifle late, and on inquiry you 
find the only seats left are " fauteuils," price one-and-six. 
For a thorough appreciation of the humours of the scene 
you should have come earlier and got a place in the gal- 
lery, price threepence. But you have no option, so you 
plunge recklessly, and bang goes one-and-sixpence. The 
fauteuils prove to be seats in the front row, and those 
vacant when you arrive are immediately behind the con- 
ductor of the orchestra. Well, you are a bit too near the 
music, but there is some compensation, for you are able 
to see how the conductor conducts and at the same time 
adds to the quality and tone of his band. \\^ith his left 
hand, you observe, he plays a piano what time he manip- 
ulates a harmonium with his right. And all the while he 
seems to be able to exchange confidences with the first 

violin, who, you cannot fail to perceive, is a wag. You 

8 



114 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



do not take this in all at once, for your eyes at first are 
fastened on the stage, where two comely females are en- 
gaged in a vigorous encounter of words, 

" Charlie." 

which you surmise may lead eventually to 
something very like blows — as it does. You pick up 
the subject or the object, which you please, of the duel of 

tongues between the two 
7^ ladies, one of whom is 
dressed like a suj)erior 
shop-assistant, while the 
other might be a fac- 
tory-girl. They both lay 
claim to the affections of 
a certain " Charlie," and 
in the wordy warfare 
that ensues they do not 
spare each other. " Do 
you know," asks the su- 
perior shop-assistant in a shrill \'oice, " that I have blue 
blood in my veins?" " What I do know," retorts the 
other, with great deliberation, " is that you'll soon have 
red blood on your nose !" Whereat the house, hugely 
tickled, roars delightedly. " Do you know," cries the 
first, " that my father occupies an important, a very im- 
portant, position in the town?" "As a mud-pusher, I 
suppose!" And again the audience screams its apprecia- 
tion ; indeed, the audience does this on the slightest 







AN EAST END iML'SlC-HALL 



115 



provocation during this particular " turn." Finally, the 
end you ha\-e foreseen comes. A little fisticuff battle con- 
cludes the action — without any damage to either of the 
scrappers, who suddenly stop, shake hands, and stand 
bowing and smiling before the footlights. The curtain 
descends, and the band plays a loud and lively air, the 
cornet, in particular, r- 
adding se\'eral horse- 
power to its \-olume 
and momentum, so to 
.speak. 

Xext appears upon 
the stage a young lady, 
rouged, powdered, de- 
colletee, sin )rt-fr( )cked ; 
she u a mimic, and. 
as you soon perceive, a 
clever one. She gives 
personations of some 
well - known popular 
mr.sic - hall favourites. 
Thus, she imitates Eu- 
gene Stratton in his 
" Lilv of Laguna." and Happy Fanny Fields in an Ameri- 
can-German song. In the latter character she says to the 
audience, " \\'h\- don't you applaud me more? Don't you 
know that the more you applaud me the more money 




ii6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 




I make?" And don't they applaud! The place fairly 
rocks with laughter and hoarse shouts. To this young 
lady succeeds the Artist Lightning 
Sketcher — he is also a ventriloquist. 
He provides himself with the fig- 
ures ventriloquists usually intro- 
duce into their pieces by a very 
simple device. He draws them on 
a large sheet of paper with chalks 
of red, black, and green, while you 
look on. Next he makes you a pic- 
ture of St. Peter's at Rome on a big 
smoked plate — and all in a minute or two. Then he does 
something even more ambitious — it is his great lightning 
picture, called " The Home of the Sea Gull." 
theTurns There is a large white sheet of paper on a 
board ; he takes various chalks — vermilion, 
blue, green, black, orange — and hey ! presto, there are 
blue sky, green water, black rocks, white gulls, and a 
black steamer (a Newcastle boat, evidently) belching 
forth black smoke, to say nothing of a black man in a 
black boat ! And all in a moment. No wonder the audi- 
ence shouts its approval. This spurs the lightning artist 
to a Still More Amazing Feat. Stepping forward with a 
profound bow, he announces that he will, in a couple of 
moments, without rubbing out a single mark on " The 
Home of the Sea Gull," convert that masterpiece into 



AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 117 

another, and very different, picture, entitled " A Summer 
Evening Walk in the Country." And he does it ! Won- 
derful man! Again flash the chalks of vermilion, blue, 
o-reen black, orano-e. The l)lue skv is now gorgeous with 
the splendours of a dying sunset ; the green water becomes 
oreen earth : the black rocks are transformed into black 
trees; the black steamboat, and the black man, and the 
black boat, are replaced by black trees with black foliage; 
and the white gulls roost under cover of the black leaves 
also. Finallv, a touch or two, and there is a pair of lovers 
in the foreground. " I calls that fine," says a deep voice 
behind vou ; " 'e's clever, 'e is!" Every one thinks the 
same, for the lightning artist is aw-arded thunderous ap- 
plause, as is only right in the circumstances. And yet 
there may be some who say that Art is not appreciated in 
this country ! 

Now there trips upon the platform another young lady. 
First she sings a song about a young angel from the 
Angel (at Isling-t-u-n) who had four little angels at 'ome, 
although the gay young spark who was courting her ap- 
peared to be unaware of this extremely interesting fact. 
Somehow, the fact does not interest the audience, and the 
song is received with the sort of silence that is audible 
half a mile awav. " Ain't no good," says the deep voice 
in the rear: "she'll 'ave to go!" Poor girl! But her 
second turn is a dance, and this is received with consider- 
able favour, so perhaps she will be kept on after all. To 



ii8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

fail at even an East End hall must be a terrible business 
for an artiste; it means, if it means anything, the streets, 
starvation, death. While your mind may, per- 
jjjgB^g° „ haps, run on in this melancholy fashion a lion 
comique puts in an appearance, and your 
thoughts are whirled away. The lion comique is nothing 
if not immensely patriotic. In an enormous voice he 
shouts that King Edward is " one of the best" of kings; 
is a second verse he yells that Lord Charles Beresford is 
"one of the best" in the navy; in a third that General 
Buller is " one of the best" in the army — all of which 
statements are uproariously welcomed. This patriotic 
ditty is followed by a sentimental song, " When the Chil- 
dren are x\ll in Bed," and it is keenly appreciated. The 
audience, led by the first \'iolin, w'ho plays and, at the same 
time, sings the air with all the strength of his lungs, takes 
up the chorus with might and main. For your East 
Ender loves a sentimental song nearly as much as he loves 
his beer. 

And now there comes the chief turn on the programme 
— it is a Sketch, by the Lynn family— Brother Lynn, so 
to speak, and two Sisters Lynn, though the family resem- 
blance Ijetween them all is remarkably faint. The two 
ladies prove to be the same w'ho appeared in the Abusive 
Duet of which " Charlie" was the subject a little while 
back. ]\Ir., or Brother, Lynn, is new to you. The su- 
perior shop-assistant is now " Mrs. Guzzle," and the 



PELT . 




AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 



121 



factory-girl is her servant, " Sloppy." Brother Lynn is 
" Mr. Guzzle," Mr. Peter Guzzle. These are 

The Guzzle 

the drainalis pcrsoiuc. When the curtain goes Family 

Sketch. 

up Mrs. Guzzle is hewailing to Slopp}- the sad 

fact that her Peter no longer comes home early o" nights, 




and that when he does come he is invariably the worse, 
much the worse, for "booze." They take counsel to- 
gether as to what is to be done to win Guzzle from his 
evil ways, and they hit on a great idea. This is nothing 
less than to lie in wait for Peter this very evening as ever 



122 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

was, get him to bed, and then pretend when he wakes up 
that he is dead — as dead as a red herring, or anything 
else that is most emphatically dead. Peter arrives upon 
the scene very drunk — he explains that he has been pre- 
siding at a teetotal meeting, and that it has gone slightly 
to his head. He is got off to bed, but in a surprisingly 
short time he reappears attired in his nightshirt, which is 
a commodious garment, whereunto is attached an enor- 
mous frill. He announces that he is come in search of the 
" water-bottle," a statement which the audience recei\'es 
with a yell of derision. And now enter Sloppy, who with 
tears (perhaps they keep her from seeing her master) 
laments the death of " poo' mahster," but is inclined to 
rejoice that her missus is rid of such a scamp. " It won't 
be long before she marries agin. There was that 'and- 
some young feller that admired "er sech a lot — o' course, 
they'll make a match of it !" And so on. Guzzle listens 
in amazement, exclaiming that he is not dead, but Sloppy 
makes as if Guzzle did not exist. So much so that Mr. 
Guzzle begins to think there must be some truth in what 
she says — he is dead, and he howls out the question, 
" Where am I — in Heaven, or in the Other Place?" 
(Great laughter.) 

The action is advanced another stage by the arrival 
of the undertaker to measure Guzzle for his coffin. The 
undertaker, you see without any wonder whatever, is no 
other than Mrs. Guzzle. Assisted by Sloppy, they lay out 



AN EAST END MUSIC-HALL 123 

Mr. Guzzle on a sofa — Guzzle keeps on protesting he is 
not dead, hut that makes no difference — and measure 
him. " He's the sort o' size," says the pretty undertaker, 
otherwise the superior shop-assistant, otherwise Mrs. 
Guzzle, with husiness-like grasp of the situation and of 
Peter, " that we keep in stock. I'll send the coffin round 
at once. He'll look pretty well laid out." 

Guzzle 

(Peter groans.) But, hold, something has andihe 

undertaker. 

been forgotten. Peter died suddenly, it seems, 
and the circumstances are a little suspicious. It is neces- 
sary, therefore, that there shall be an inquest by the coro- 
ner — Peter w ill have to be " opened up." ( Loud and 
long-contiimed shrieks from Peter : " Cut up ! Opened 
up! I won't be cut up! I won't be openfed up! I'm not 
dead! O! what a bad dream! What an awful night- 
mare!") Then Sloppy and the undertaker talk about the 
'■ dear departed." Sloppy tells him that her master was 
a good 'usband to missus until he took to bettin' and 
drinkin'. \\'ell. Guzzle was dead now ("I must be 
dead!" cries Guzzle, with sudden conviction), and missus 
would soon console herself — " A 'andsome woman like 'er 
won't have to wear the wilier long." (Peter groans dis- 
mallv.) Exit undertaker, promising to send the coffin at 
once. 

Meanwhile there is a noise outside, and Sloppy remarks 
that must be the coroner come to hold the inquest, and 
he must be sharpening up his instruments to " open up 



124 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

mahster." (Peter shrieks, howls, kicks, tears his hair — 
the audience shouting with inextinguishable laughter the 
while.) But the coroner never comes upon the stage; 
instead of him enter the Devil to take Peter off to the 
Other Place. (The Devil, you will notice, has 
Devil. '^^ ^^^^ occasion a trim female figure — in fact, 

that of Mrs. Guzzle.) The Devil is too much 
for Peter, and he (Peter) goes off into a fit. When he 
comes out of it, his wife and Sloppy are by his side. He 
tells them he's had a frightful nightmare, but that, thank 
goodness, it was nothing else. " Do you know," he says 
confidingly, " I dreamt I was dead, and that the under- 
taker came to measure me for my coffin, and that there 
was to be an inquest, and that I was to be opened up, and 
that the Devil — but it was all a bad dream ! Well, my 
dear, it's taught me a lesson. I'll never bet or go to the 
Pig and Whistle again." Brother Lynn and the two Sis- 
ters Lynn now join hands, while the crowd rocks and 
reels with tumultuous cheers, hand-clappings, and cat- 
calls. The Lynn Family, or Guzzle Family, as you like it, 
has scored a huge and gorgeous success ! 

To them succeed acrobats, who appear to think that 
jumping in and out of barrels, blindfolded, is quite a usual 
way of " getting around," — but by this time you have 
seen enough. You abandon your fauteuil, get out of the 
smoke-laden, beer-stained atmosphere, and pass out into 
the street. 



CHAPTER VIII 



EARL S COURT 



" Gauntlet . . . therefore proposed to pass part of the evening at 
the public entertainments in Marylebone Gardens, which were at 
that time frequented by the best company in town." 

Smollett, Peregrine Pickle. 

The congeries of shows, entertainments, shops, and 
exhibitions of one sort or another, compendiously known 
as Earl's Court, is a prominent feature of the Night Side 
of London from May to October. In some measure it 
may be regarded as a descendant of those " public enter- 
tainments" to which Smollett referred in the last chapter 
of the evergreen Peregrine Pickle, and which is quoted 
above. Another of its prototypes was famous Vauxhall, 
and another, nearer our own time, Cremorne. It may be 
doubted, however, if any of these places, not excepting 
A'auxhall. approached Earl's Court in size, or splendour, 
or popularity, or afforded anything like the same variety. 
Earl's Court can scarcely be said to have a 
rival at present. But when Cremorne was at a unique 

'■ ])lace. 

the height of its vogue, it had competitors in 
Xorth Woolwich Gardens and Highbury Barn. The 
Crystal Palace does not draw the crowd as does Earl's 

125 



126 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Court, nor does the Aquarium, in spite of its boast that 
at no other place can so many shows be seen. The vast 
extent of Earl's Court, the diversit}- of the attractions of 
all kinds it furnishes, the picturesqueness of its grounds, 
its myriads of coloured lights, its magnificent music, and 
other things, have given it a unique place in the life of the 
town. Of a summer's e\'ening there is no more agreeable 
lounge to be found anywhere, nor is there anything at all 
like it in any other city of the world. It seems strange 
that there is not something of the sort in Paris, but there 
is not. 

Earl's Court is by way of combining instruction with 
amusement. It calls itself primarily an Exhibition — 
Earl's Court Exhibition. Each year there is a different 
Exhibition. One year the subject, so to speak, was the 
Empire of India; in another, the Victorian Era; in a 
third. Greater Britain ; last year there was a Military 
Exhibition; this year (1902) there is a Coronation Ex- 
hibition — a name, rather curiously, which covers a repro- 
duction of the Paris Exposition of last year. It is diffi- 
cult to institute any comparison between these various 
exhibitions, but the feature which has been 
°" ., .,. common to them all is what mav be called the 

exhibitions. 

spectacular. The Director-General of Earl's 
Court (a native of Buda-Pest) is a man who has the veri- 
table Oriental love of gorgeous display and sensuous 
magnificence. He has a positive genius for contriving a 



EARL'S COURT 129 

great spectacle. To his native fondness for it he adds a 
wide experience gained in the United States, particularly 
at the World's V'dh in Chicago, where his spectacle of 
'' America" is said to have had the biggest artistic and 
financial success of any show in history. He is at his best, 
however, when he is doing something relating to the East 
— as, for instance, in his Exhibition of India, with its 
prodigality of types, its vivid contrasts, its blazing col- 
ours, he fairly revelled in producing striking and even 
extraordinary effects. It will perhaps be asked if any one 
learns much, or even a little, from these exhibitions. It 
does not answer the question, but there is very small doubt 
that not one in a thousand goes to Earl's Court to get 
knowledge or information. Yet knowledge and informa- 
tion are there — if anybody wants 'em; but people hate 
being " informed" — they go to Earl's Court to be amused, 
to see the Show, to talk, to hear the music, to flirt, to 
"pick something up" (not necessarily information). 

Earl's Court is open all day long, but it is in the evening 
when most people go there. And it is in the evening that 
you had better go, though you will not find one evening 
enough to take it all in. If you go during the daytime you 
will see far too well how the effects are obtained ; night 
throws mystery and illusion over the scene, which are en- 
hanced rather than dispelled by the multitudinous col- 
oured lights. Perhaps you are too blase to have any 
other feeling than that you are looking on at an unusually 



130 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



t-airv-land. 



big pantomime; if, however, this is not the case, you may 
be incHned to sympathise with the Httle country cousin 
who says enthusiasticahy that it is " Hke fairy-land." And 
the particular entrance to the Exhibition which 
is most likely to help you to this point of view 
is that in Earl's Court Road. For there, when you have 
paid your shilling, and passed within the turnstiles, 
you soon come upon the most fairy-like place in the 
whole Show. Here in the centre is a lake, and round its 
edge run these coloured lamps, whose gleams are reflected 
bv the water. At one end is a grotto; in the midst 

of it is a bridge; along 




it glide swans that 
turn out to be small 
electric launches. At 
one side of it there 
stands a Canadian 
water-chute, down the 
slope of which sw-eep, 
with what seems seems 
terrific speed, flat- 
bottomed boats into the lake. The people in these 
boats generally diversify the proceedings by doing a little 
shouting and screaming, but as a matter of fact they are 
as safe in these canoes or skiffs as if they were on shore. 
From beyond the bridge comes the music of a band. 
Round the lake there runs a " Chinese dragon" railway. 



EARL'S COURT 



131 



Past the bridge, on the left side, is a covered building con- 
taining exhibits of divers kinds ; on the right is another, 
also fr.ll of " things." It is b}' passing through the build- 
ing on the left that }nu rcacli a l)ridge which takes }-ou 
o\cr the tops of some houses to a flight of stairs, passing 
down which you go into another part, where are the 
theatre, picture-gallery, and other places of interest or 
entertainment. 

Opposite the theatre is the gateway into a large and 
handsome s(|uare, which is lined with shops and booths 
of all kinds. In the centre is the 
inevitable bandstand, and about it 
arc chairs for those dispcjsed to sit 
and listen to the l)and. This is per- 
haps the (|uietest part of Earl's 
Court, and if }-ou lo\-e music more 
than shows this is the spot for you. 
At the far end of the square is an- 
other gatewa\-, at the further side of 
which vou will find more shows — 
mostlv of the side-show variet}-, but 
generalh- with S(.me relation to the special exhibition 
being held. Thus, in the India Kxhibiti( )n there were shows 
in this part of the place of Indian jugglers, musicians, ser- 
pent-charmers, and the like. Beyond these shows you will 
come to what has long been the most striking feature of 
Earl's Court— the Rig Wheel. But on the Big ^^'heel 




132 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



sentence has been passed ; it does not draw the crowd as it 
formerly did, and something new must take its place. And 
yet it seems rather a pity, for by day you could 
Bi"'wheei S^^ from the top of it the finest view of Lon- 
don, and at night there was to be seen a 
strange and curious night-light picture of part of London 
— especially of the grounds of Earl's Court itself — which 
was certainly very attractive. But the public have lost 
interest in it; it is played out, and it must go. What will 
become of it? It is not the sort of 
thing that can easily drop out of 
sight. Well, if you have not yet 
been " up" in the Big Wheel, you 
should make a point of going — if 
' for no other object than to see how 
Earl's Court looks from " 'way up 
^ '^^"'^ there." Should it be your luck that 
the Wheel sticks on your trip, and 
you have to spend a few hours in one of the carriages 
(this has happened to other people more than once), 
why, then, the management will see that you don't lose 
by it. 

From the Big Wheel you go on through some gardens 
to yet another square, with of course another bandstand 
in the midst thereof. Before you arrive in this square you 
will notice, as you walk along, that on one side is a 
" roller-coaster" or switchback, and as the cars thunder 





EARL'S COURT 133 

up and down the thing, you wih liear the laughter and 
shrieks of the passengers mixed with the noise. But the 
fickle public are not so keen on the switchback as they 
used to be, and the cars do not run with any remarkable 
frequency. But no\\- you are in this third and last square. 
In some respects it is the most important, for here is the 
great dining-hall, where you may dine with some sump- 
tuousness, or, if aou happen to be a member of the Wel- 
come Club, whose abode is also in this part of Earl's 
Court, you may have your dinner there — afterward sit- 
ting out for your coffee and liqueurs within the Club 
enclosure, which forms one side of this square. The 
Welcome Club has quite a large number of 
members, drawn from all parts of the town, "^^^ ^''' ciub' 
but naturally it is most generally patronised by 
those living in the immediate neighbourhood.. The Club 
is closel)- connected with the Exhibition, and of course is 
shut up when Earl's Court is closed. The Welcome Club 
is. you might say, the loungiest lounge in the place. And 
in addition to the Welcome Club, and the dining-room, 
and the bandstand, there are in this square a theatre, and a 
diorama, and the entrance to a covered way, which leads 
}'ou, through an avenue of shops, to that point in your 
journey from which you smarted on leaving the lake. 
^^'eIl, }"ou will have heard some fine music, and seen some 
strange sights, to say nothing of beholding an enormous 
number of people. The last-named hold pretty well as 



134 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

many types and characters as are to be found in London, 
vhether in its drawing-rooms or in its streets. And the 
study of types and characters is always interesting — 
when not too personally conducted. Verb. sap. 



■- **.^- ^^SH^^H 



CHAPTER IX 

THE MASKED-BALL 

" The midnight masquerade." — Goldsmith. 
" Adventures are to the adventurous." — Disraeli. 

There were times when the masked-ball was one of 
the great features of the Night Side of London, but it 
can scarcely be said to be a great feature of it now. The 
public masquerade, the masked-ball, the " ridotto" (as 
it was named at the beginning of the eighteenth century, 
so as to shock public sentiment less), the bal-inasque, 
came to England in the time of that gay dog, Charles II. 
It flourished more or less in the days when George the 
First was king, but in 1723 it was put down by a discern- 
ing government. However, it did not long remain sup- 
pressed, and historic Vauxhall was the scene 
of many a lively masquerade. Vauxhall had n,asked-baiTs^ 
its dav (and its night too), and passed away. 
Forty or fifty years ago the masked-ball came into fash- 
ion again. From a book written at that time, it seems 
that masked-balls were held at the Holborn Casino (the 
Holborn Restaurant replaced it later), at Covent Garden, 
at the Alhambra, at Highbury Barn, and at Drury Lane 

135 



136 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

— and they don't appear to have differed very strikingly 
from those of the present period, such as you will behold 
in the winter at Covent Garden. Masked-balls fell into 
bad odour, and almost or altogether ceased in London. 
Some ten years ago or so they were revived at Covent 
Garden. From October to the commencement of the 
Opera season there is a ball once a fortnight. Suppose 
you take one in? 

Now for a night of " fun" ! you may have dined at 
the Continental — if so, it is quite on the cards that some 
of the ladies you may have seen there will be present later 
at Covent Garden — or elsewhere. You perhaps took a 
look in at the Empire or the Alhambra, or at some other 
music-hall, by way of passing the time. For, although 
the ball is advertised to begin before eleven, the dancers 
do not arrive in any numbers till after midnight. So you, 
too, will not care to reach the theatre much sooner. You 
can go masked if you like; you may don a 

Present-dav j • r 1 ^ 

version ' dommo or some fancy-dress costume; you 
may go in evening-dress simply — these are 
matters, you will find, that are left to yourself. Very 
much so, in fact, for 3'ou will see, by and by, that dancers 
will be at the ball who haven't even put on evening-dress, 
but who have hidden their morning attire under a dom- 
ino. Well, about twelve you get into a hansom. Perhaps 
you are with a friend ; if not, you will have no trouble in 
picking up one, if you want to, in the ballroom. It may 



THE MASKED-BALL 137 

be that this is the first Covent Garden ball yon have " as- 
sisted" at. and when yon have alighted from yonr cab, 
cnriosity makes yon stand in the vestilnile or hall, jnst 
inside the door, and watch the people coming in. In some 
respects this, yon may find, is not the least interesting 
part of the entertainment. 

You take your stand near the door by which admit- 
tance is gained into the ballroom. On yonr right are the 
steps up to the boxes, where also is the ladies' dressing- 
room. Here, then, in the hall you will be able to observe 
the fair creatures as they arrive, and before they have 
finallv arra}-ed themselves for conquest. On }-onr right 
also is an office where you can get " masks, dominoes. 
gloves" — as you hear from some one who shouts out the 
information from within. To your left is a pay-box, and 
opposite it is another. There is also a gentleman's cloak- 
room. The price of admission to the ballroom 
is a guinea, but if you merely wash to look on, "''pavs' 

you can get a seat in the gallery for a few 
shillings. If you desire to be verv extravagant, you can 
treat yourself to a box, but that will run you into several 
guineas. Suppose yon pay your guinea. If you intend 
to stand in the hall some minutes watching the people 
come in, von will feel more comfortable if you pay at 
once. For a few paces from yon there is a sergeant of 
police from Bow Street (which is jnst across the way) 
and also an ordinary constable, and they are sure to turn 



138 THE NIGHT SIDE OE LONDON 

a very keen eye on you if they see you loitering here. 
But if you have a ticket, you can defy them with the ex- 
planation that you are waiting for a friend. 

For half an hour you have seen, let us say, thirty or 
forty people step into the vestibule. Sometimes they have 
come in couples, a man and a woman ; again, it may be, 
that two or three ladies, sans cavaliers, put in an appear- 
ance, or two or three young men without any ladies. 
When a man and a woman come in together, you may 
observe that the lady is nearly always in a mask. When 
the ladies come in by themselves (generally without pre- 
tence at any disguise) you notice that they stand about in 
the hall for some time. If you spy on them closely, you 

may or may not be surprised ( it will depend 
th?e"shoW" o^ your knowledge of life) to see that these 

ladies are reduced to the unpleasantness of 
buying their own tickets. Should your sense of gallantry 
carry you so far as to cause you to desire to be their 
banker, you will find astonishingly few obstacles placed 
in your way ; on the contrary, every encouragement 
will be smiled upon you. But imagine you do not suc- 
cumb to the temptation — you are not yet tired of watch- 
ing. You turn to the group of young men who 
have just got down from a pair of hansoms. They are 
very, very young; youth, and the high spirits of youth, 
are written large upon them ; they are a little flushed, a 
little noisy, a little easy in their gestures. Older men 



THE MASKED-BALL 139 

conic in too; one — as likely as not — or two are old 
cnouLjli to he the fathers of the youngsters you have had 
your eyes on a moment ago. 

Ahout lialf-i)ast twelve, and on until half-past one 
(•"cidck. there is a great quickening, a rush. People begin 
and contiime to arrive in large and small parties, and for 
an hour the \-estibule is crowded with fresh arrivals. In- 
deed, it is so full that you may find yourself in the way. 
So in a few minutes you give up your ticket and pass 
through the door. and. before ascending the stairs that 
lead }-()U up to the ballroom, you take a look around. 
Here, in the corridor or hallway, there is a bar. served bv 
maids adorned with ribbons of red. white, and blue. Be- 
yond are small tables " built for two," apd you note that 
they are well ( well, in more senses than one) occupied. 
As you glance, you see couples merrilv supping, and vou 
hear the suggestive popping of corks and the 

. At supper. 

fizzle of champagne m the glass. Some of 
those at the bar and at the supper-tables have their masks 
on, but the majority, the great majoritv. are disguised 
( the joke is something of the most ancient) as ladies and 
gentlemen. You begin to take in the fact that a very 
small proportion of the dancers wear masks, and that 
though a considerable percentage of the ladies are in 
fancy dress, a still larger is not. The authorities of the 
place, to encourage the use of fanc}' dress, give prizes, 
quite valuable ones too, for the best costumes, and you 



I40 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

may be inclined to suspect that were it not for these in- 
ducements fancy dress would be at a greater discount 
than it is. 

But all this while music, delicious music, the music of 
one of the best bands in England, for, probably enough, 
it is Dan Godfrey's, has been sounding in your ears, and, 
besides, you can hardly fail to hear the tap, tap, tapping 
of little heels and lesser toes on the floor, and the swish 
or rustle of silken skirts. A picture is conjured up with 
you, and you proceed to verify it. So you ascend the 
steps, and presently you are in one of the handsomest ball- 
rooms in the world. All the stalls and seats in the im- 
mense amphitheatre have been removed, with the result 

that there is a splendid floor-surface for the 
bauroom tripping of the light fantastic. The floor is 

highly polished too, and is in capital condition. 
The place is brilliantly lighted up, and above the band- 
stand is a pretty arrangement of coloured lights in fes- 
toons from the ceiling, which have a really charming 
effect. Perhaps as you enter there is a pause between the 
dances, and this gives you a chance to see what the 
place is like. Your glance sweeps round the magnificent 
room, and you note that there are hundreds of dancers. 
You also see that many of the boxes are full, though it 
may be there are more empty ones. If it is the first night 
of the masked-ball season, all or nearly all of them will 
be occupied — so also on the last. Programme in hand, 



THE MASKED-BALL 141 

you make your way across the floor. The next dance is 
the Lancers, and ^ou secure a place near the band, from 
wliicli you will he able to get a good view of the scene. 
The conductor raises his baton, and the band strikes up. 
The piece they play, and it is played to admiration, is a 
medley of light operatic airs, taken from a popular musi- 
cal comedy of the day. 

The dancers quickly form up on the floor, and they lose 
no time in getting to work. Unquestionably, it is a merry 
scene — bright, sparkling, picturesque, but its main fea- 
ture is that of a sportive and not easily discouraged jol- 
lity. There is a good deal of cheerful noise. In some 
sets the dance is rendered to perfection. .Vnd why not? 
For amongst the men and women are some of the best 
performers in London. As the dance proceeds each and 
all abandon themselves more and more to the 

A dance. 

gay suggestion of the music, and there is less 
and less of the orthodox drawing-room style of dancing 
to be seen. Here a man dressed as a monk catches up his 
partner in his arms, and holding her aloft waltzes 
*' around," as the Americans phrase it. Another man, 
in ordinary evening-dress, follows his example — there is 
much laughter, for in another moment he and his partner 
are sprawling on the floor. They pick themselves up, 
and there is more laughter. Some of the ladies indulge 
in a little " high kicking," and you have seductive 
glimpses of flashing, shapely, silk-stockinged legs. And 



142 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

all over the immense floor much the same kind of thing 
is going on, but to get a perfect view you must go up to 
one of the boxes. And thither you ascend, and then look 
down. 

Again you will undoubtedly conclude that the scene is 
a gay and festive one ; it is full of bright colour, of rhyth- 
mical movement. You scan the various sets, and you 
make a catalogue of the costumes. Here is a " Type of 
English Beauty," there a " Shepherdess" ; here " Pierrot" 
and " Pierrette," there the " Queen of Hearts" with the 
" Knave"; here is the " Emerald Isle" in green and gold, 
there a '* Chinaman"; here a " Courtier of Louis XIV.," 
there a " Page of Charles II." ; here is " Goosey, Goosey 
Gander," there a fat " Romeo" along with an amiable- 
looking " Lady Macbeth" ; over yonder " Mephisto" has 
a " Hallelujah Lassie" in his arms. And so on. You 
have no doubt been at other fancy-dress balls, 

The scene 

from the and you recognise in the costumes a large 

boxes. 

number of old friends. Amongst the dancers 
are a few in dominoes and a smaller band in masks. And 
as the night lengthens out nearly all the masks are re- 
moved. Your lightly roving eye tells you that there are 
many pretty w^omen here; one or two of them are posi- 
tively beautiful. And there are plenty of handsome, 
good-looking men. They all seem to be happy and in 
high spirits. All appear to be having a " high old time." 
And of course that is exactly what they are here for. 



/To.^^"" 






WL: 




THE DANCERS QIICKLY FORM UP ON THE FLOOR. 



THE MASKED-BALL 145 

Black care, for a few hours at least, has ceased to sit 
behind the horsemen, so to say. While you look on, the 
music comes to an end. And now you notice there is a 
fresh excitement in the place. Those who have entered 
for the prizes given for the best costumes now submit 
themselves to the verdict of the judges. The dancers 
form a living lane, and up this the contestants walk, 
amidst the freest of criticisms and no little banter and 
chaff, to the bandstand, whereon are the judges. This 
function is soon over. You hear presently that the young 
lady who represented " Goosey, Goosey Gander," or 
" The Spider and the Fly," or '* The \\niisper of the 
Shell." as the case may be, has been awarded the first 
prize, and you can guess without being told how much 
she is envied by her less fortunate sisters. 

And now you ask yourself the impertinent question, 
Who are all these people, these votaries of pleasure? 
Exactly, you tell yourself, that is who and wdiat they are 
— the votaries of pleasure. Amongst the men are ofificers 
of the army, men from the Stock Exchange, actors, jour- 
nalists, betting men. men about town, young " bloods," 
and hosts of men who can only be described as nonde- 
scripts, except that they are all bent on seeing 
life and resolved to ciuaff the purple cup to the , ^^^ 

'■ 111 dancers. 

dregs. They are all, you may be sure, labelled 

" fast," but for all that most of them are good fellows 

enough, and it would be a pretty big mistake to suppose 



146 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

they are all travelling post-haste on the highroad to 
Hades. And the ladies — well, who are they, and where 
do they come from? You have seen what yon have seen 
as you were standing in the hall, and you must have your 
own opinion. Certainly, as the night wears on you will 
not have two opinions. The ladies for the most part 
belong to the Half- World, but there! you knew that 
before. Still, if you have ever been to a hal-masque in 
Paris, and compare it with the Covent Garden variety, 
you will acknowledge that the standard of conduct is 
higher in England than in France. Here there are ushers, 
masters of ceremonies, attendants, to say nothing of the 
police in the background of the whole entertainment, and 
they take care that a certain appearance of decorum is 
maintained. 

Another dance succeeds the procession of those trying 
for the prizes; this time it is a barn-dance. The music 
is sprightly and catchy, and every one seems to enter into 
the fun and enjoyment of the thing with the utmost zest. 
Certainly, it is a gay and attractive picture — the pretty 
w^omen, the young, handsome men, the dresses, the lights, 
the big ballroom. There is the measured beat, beat, beat 
of dancing feet to the lively time, and there is a sound of 
laughter and merriment in the pulsing air. And so, 
again, in the next dance — a polka, danced in ten or 
twenty different styles, but each and all with frank 
abandon. It is now getting on in the night, or rather 



THE iMASK ED-CALL 147 

morning, and each successi\'e dance is a shade more noisy, 
its " time" a bit quicker, tlian its predecessor. There is 
something infectious in the scene, and tired of being a 
mere onlooker you descend from the box and mingle with 
the peo])Ie on the floor. Then comes the " Cake Walk" — 
now all the vogue. But first you take a look at the men 
and women sitting and lounging about on the seats and 
benches at the side of the ballroom. Most of 
them are in pairs, though here and there a aooi'^ 

nymph sits lonely and disconsolate. Some of 
these people are evidently having a good time; others 
seem tired and bored. It is much the same, however, at 
the Duchess of Blankshire's ball, where you have seen 
how pleasure and ennui, joy and satiety meet together 
and sit side by side. 'Tis for ever the same old human 
comech'-tragedy ! And now you manage to push your 
wav through the crowd standing looking on at the 
dancers. You reach the bandstand just as the last strains 
of the polka die away, and you are caught up by the rush 
of dancers all making for the refreshment-tables, most of 
which are situated behind the bandstand or downstairs 
in the corridor you saw as you came in. 

You too take a seat behind the bandstand, and call for 
what you will. The waiters are in great demand, and 
probably you may have to ^^•ait some time before you are 
served. So you gaze about you, and you instantly per- 
ceive that here you are, in a sense at any rate, " behind 



148 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



the scenes." There are perhaps seventy or eighty people 
at the various tables, in twos or in larger parties. Fair 
faces are a trifle flushed; painted cheeks incline to look 
the least bit haggard; some of the voices are more than 
common shrill. Here and there you listen to some half- 
hysterical laughter. And yet it is a fairly orderly crowd 
— indeed, remarkably so, considering all that has been 
going on. There is a long bar, and behind it 
thes"cenes. ^^^ waltrcsscs (tlicy look tired to death, as no 
doubt they are, poor things, for they have been 
standing there for hours), dressed like the others in red, 
white, and blue. In front of it are men and women two 

or three deep. And 
now, as you look, you 
see something. There 
is the fat monk whom 
you have observed 
earlier in the evening, 
and lo ! the cord which 
bound his capacious 
waist (?) is removed 
by a lady, and in a few 
seconds a skipping- 
rope is at work, and 
first one, then three or four damsels are skipping for all 
they are worth, their skirts tucked up or gathered up 
around them, so that you can see their stockings and 







THE MASKED-BALL 



149 



other articles of attire — which you do not generally see; 
let us put it in that way. and leave something to the 
imagination. But this phase of the ball does not last 
long — if you are quite human it is just possible you 
think it does not last long enough. An attendant comes 
up and confiscates the 
skipping-rope ! You 
turn awa}'. and now 
something else meets 
your view. Just under 
the palm in a corner 
is a little party — a 
merry little party it is. 
There are two girls 
got up as " coons." 
and they are dressed 
in the white " pants" 
and the sailor-like 
upper garment you 
see in the music-halls. 
There are two men 
with them ; there is a 
a running fire of chaff, and in a twinkling one of the coons 
is taken up from the floor and deposited in the lap of one 
of the men. He proceeds to " cuddle" her in the most un- 
blushing manner, a process which appears to meet with 
her entire approval. An attendant passes by, but he does 




COVENT GARDEN BALL GIRLS. 



150 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

not see, or lie pretends not to see, and the coon remains in 
the arms of lier lover — is he her lover? AA'ell, perhaps he 
is ; at any rate, that is the character in which he chooses 
to appear at the ball behind the scenes ! And there are 
other equally suggestive pictures to be witnessed here. 

The night is getting older ; dance succeeds dance, and 
then comes the distribution of the prizes to the successful 
contestants. It may be that people are getting rather 
tired of the wdiole thing, for it is now past four 
o'clock, and the giving of the prizes causes little or 
no excitement. Then there are more dances ; with 
some, hilarity is at its height ! 
J1-l'c la bagatelle, vivc la joic! 
At five o'clock there is a last 
dance, and the thing comes to 
an end with " God save the King!" 
You get your wraps, and then 

LAST WALTZ. 

you think of breakfast, or " some- 
thing to eat." Covent Garden is near, and you know 
that its early market-folk were there Avith their flowers 
and fruit and vegetables two or three hours ago, and you 
also know that there are several places of " entertainment 

for man and beast" open. To the most fa- 
After ^ 

the ball— mous of them all you wend your wa}-, in com- 

breaklast. 

pany wuth some other revellers of the night. 
You come on a breakfast-room, \Ahere you can have 
kidneys and liacon or some other dish. And here you see 




THE MASKED-BALL 



151 



the last of the masked-ball. You sit down at table, and 
}-our z'is-a-z'is is a young lady dressed as a vivandiere, 
and beside her is a Spanish dancer. Not far off is a 
young gentleman, and you notice he has enjoyed the ball 
not wisely but too well. And the talk you listen to is not 
pru'ticularl)- edifying! But everything comes to an end. 
Finally, you get into your cab and drive away. If you 
are wise you drive away alone or with a male friend. 
" Dinna forget." 




CHAPTER X 

THE SHILLING HOP 

"... This manly, masterful seizure by the waist, this lifting 
almost off the feet, this whirl round and round to the music. ..." 
Besant, All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 

One of the pleasantest and at the same time most 
wholesome features of the Night Side of London is the 
Shining Hop. Some forty or fifty years ago London was 
surrounded with places where dancing was carried on, 
and for the most part these were open-air places ; but they 
have pretty well disappeared. You will see on Bank Holi- 
days 'Arry and 'Arriet dancing on Hampstead Heath, at 
the Crystal Palace, at Alexandra Park, and elsewhere, 
just as 3^ou will see children and 3'Oung girls dancing in 
the streets to the music of the organ-ginders. But it is 
at the Shilling Hops, held in various parts of 

Town Hall. 



the town, that you will behold the most genu- 



ine devotion to the dance. At one hall alone, 
Holborn Town Hall, there are three of these " Cinder- 
ellas" every week during the winter, and many hundreds 
of people take part in each of them. Of course, these 
modest entertainments are very different from the great 
152 



THE SHILLING HOP 153 

organised balls, of which there are a vast number given 
every winter — and also in the " Season" : balls national, 
such as that known as the Caledonian held at the White- 
hall Rooms, where royalty has been known to appear in 
Highland costume, or like that given at the German Gym- 
nasium in St. Pancreas Road, or balls given by clubs and 
societies and '" Orders." These Shilling Hops are quite 
informal, quite humble in comparison with even the least 
conspicuous of these affairs, but for all that you see some 
of the \-erv best dancing in London at them. Here are 
none of the fastidious men, the despair of hostesses, who 
can't or won't dance. 

You shall go to one at Holborn Town Hall ; it may be 
on a Monday, Thursday, or Saturday d\'ening, just as it 
suits you, for there is a Shilling Hop every week on each 
of these evenings, or very nearly so, all through the long 
winter months. As you enter you pay your shilling to a 
young lady, who probably is a daughter of the Professor 
of Dancing under whose auspices the Hop is given. You 
receive a card of admittance, on one side of which is the 
programme of the dances ; as you glance over it you see 
the programme, so far as the dances are concerned, is not 
verv different from that }-ou held in your hand at the 
Duchess of Blankshire's famous ball; there is much the 
same procession or alternation of waltz, lancers, waltz, 
barn dance, waltz, as there was at her Grace's big dance. 
You pass up the uncarpeted stairs. You arrive during 



154 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

one of the intervals between the dances, and the hall at 
the top of the stairs is crowded with young men and 

maidens. You don't notice many elderly 
landiifg. people amongst them — there are a few, and 

you rather wonder what they are doing there. 
(And there are no chaperons at these Hops.) You ob- 
serve that with the exception of two or three the girls 
have made no attempt to appear in " evening-dress," The 
only man in regulation war-paint is the Professor of 
Dancing, who gives the Hop and, as you see presently, 
acts as the master of ceremonies at it. In fact, nearly 
everybody is dressed in his or her " Sunday best." On 
your left is the entrance into the hall ; in front of you is 
the indispensable refreshment-room. While you are 
gazing about you, the band within the hall strikes up — 
it is the insinuating music of an old favourite waltz of 
Strauss's, and the people press in, but without rudeness or 
scrambling, into the dancing-room. And you pass in too. 
Holborn Town Hall is a noble room for dancing in, or 
for anything else. And on this particular evening its 
polished floor gleams like ice. At one end is a platform, 
on which is an organ ; at the far end is a gallery, bare 
of people. Immediately in front of the organ is the 
band; it counts some seven or eight instruments, and 
they who perform on them are dressed — well, not exactly 
like the members of the Blue Hungarian or Red Ruma- 
nian Bands. One or two are in a uniform of sorts, two 



Till': SHILLING HOP 155 

or three are in evening- attire (also of sorts), the rest are 
in "lounge" suits. But the dress doesn't matter; it is 
the music — but, alas! that might be better. As the music 
sounds the tloor of the hall is covered in a twinkling with 
(lancers. Vou watch them, and }ou notice that as a rule 
they dance excellently well, 1)Ut their enjoyment is of the 
most sober, decorous kind. The great major- 
ity, you can hardly fail to see without a smile, "^dTifcr 
regard dancing as a very serious business — a 
thing not lightly to be undertaken, but with all gravity. 
You have an amused sense that every one is determined 
to get the fullest possible value for his or her shilling. 
But they do dance well. Here you shall see two hundred 
couples on the floor waltzing, and you shall entirely fail 
to observe a young man trampling on his partner's toes, 
or a pair wildly careering amongst, blindly cannoning 
against, inoffensi\e and defenceless people. You ask 
}-ourself, with your usual impertinence, who they all are, 
and the answer is not far to seek. They are — -at least 
most of them — from the ranks of the exceeding great 
army of shop-assistants, and the biggest battalions are 
drawn from what our American cousins call " dry-goods 
stores." And if the sight they present is not exactly gay, 
it is at any rate a pleasant sight — a sight which would 
have delighted the heart of the great novelist and good 
man who wrote All Sorts and Conditions of Men, and 
who gave East London its " People's Palace." 



156 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

The waltz over, the dancers flock away to the refresh- 
ment-room. The Professor of Dancing, meanwhile, has 
spotted you, and he comes up, bow^s, and inquires if he 
may get you a partner. You enter into conversation with 
him, and congratulate him on the success of the Hop. 
He replies that sometimes he has much larger affairs. 
He tells you that he has Shilling Hops on the other side 
of the river which are, perhaps, much bigger. He des- 
cants on the finer aspects of the thing — how these Shil- 
ling Hops are looked forward to by many a young girl, 
many a young fellow, as the brightest spots in their lives. 
He assures vou that these Hops make for man- 

The 

" Professor" lincss and a wholesome pride — are not pupils 

alks. 

of his now soldiers of the King in South 
Africa and elsewhere? " Here," he says, " a man sees 
many young ladies, and if he takes a fancy for one — you 
may be sure he has many competitors ; he has to take 
pains with himself and his appearance; he has to show 
what he's worth to win her ; it's a very good thing for 
both." Quite so, you agree. Then his talk drifts off to 
other dances in the town, and he institutes comparisons 
between these and his own Hops — greatly in favour of 
the latter, you may be sure. And perhaps not without 
reason. '' The Cake Walk," he goes on, " is all the rage 
now. Would you like to see one?" And he announces 
in a loud tone that the Cake Walk will be interpolated 
between the next two dances on the list. First comes the 



THE SHILLING HOP 159 

Lancers — danced with the utmost correctness and a feel- 
ing for the niceties of deportment wliich would have sat- 
isfied even the immortal Tur\eydrop. And then follows 
the Cake Walk. But this is not a huge success. Perhaps 
it is because there is so much abandon about it — because 
it is so complete a caricature of Turveydropism — but the 
Shilling Hoppers do not take to it kindlv. They do ever 
so much better in their grave, severely serious waltzes; 
truth to say, they take their pleasures a trifle sadly. 



CHAPTER XI 



CLUB LIFE 



"I was detained at the Club."- — Any husband to any wife (Old 
Style). 

London is pre-eminently the city of clubs. In it there 
are at least fifty of well-established position, as many 
more of greater or less pretensions to social standing, and 
a multitude besides, the status of which is " special" or 
" peculiar." An ingenious American, fond of the statis- 
tical side of life, has calculated that the " recognised" 
London clubs have a membership of upwards of one hun- 
dred thousand. Clubs of one kind or another are now to 
be found all over the town, but to all intents and purposes 
they may be said to be prett}^ well confined to Pall Mall, 
St. James's, and Piccadilly. On the extreme 
HunT western boundary you shall find the Bache- 

lors', at the corner of Hamilton Place, and the 
Wellington, at the top of Grosvenor Place. Leaving out 
of view the City clubs, you may say that the Senior forms 
the eastern boundary ; but this is hardly correct, for such 
a statement fails to take into account a host of clubs, such 
as the Union, the National Liberal, and the other clubs 

in Whitehall Court, the Constitutional, the Garrick, the 
1 60 



CLUB LIFE 



i6i 



Savage, the Green Room, the National Sporting, the Vic- 
toria, the Writers', and the Press, which all lie further 
east. If you will look at 
any list oi clubs for this 
year of grace, 1902, you 
can count about a hun- 
dred and twenty-five for 
gentlemen, and a dozen 
for ladies. A century 
ago there were no clubs 
for ladies, and very few 
for gentlemen. The rise 
of clubs is distinctly a 
feature of the nineteenth 
century. But though 
the beginning of the 
twentieth century sees 
more clubs in London 
than ever before, the rise 
of the restaurants, so 
conspicuous a feature of 
present-day London life, has profoundly modified the 
Xight Side of club life. The club-man of seventy or 
eighty years ago, who spent most of his evenings at his 
club dining, gaming, drinking, gossiping, were he to 
come to life again and revisit his former haunt at his 
accustomed time o' night, would more probably than not 







i62 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

find it almost empty. And were he to be told that clubs 
are most populous — indeed, only populous — at the hour 
sacred to afternoon tea, he would not believe it, or if he 
did he would get himself back in immitigable disgust to 
the shades again. 

Some of the older clubs, as you may see from the 
famous book at Brooks's, wherein are recorded the bets 
of its members in days long bygone, were gambling-clubs 
and nothing else. In St. James's Street you can find 
the Cocoa Tree, whose name recalls the ancient seat of 
gaming, and hard by is the Thatched House, built on the 
site of a once celebrated tavern of the same appellation. 
And here it may be noted that the London clubs, the pro- 
genitors of the modern clubs, grew out of the London 
taverns. A hundred and fifty years ago men spent their 
eveninp-s in the taverns of the town — one of 

Clubs ^ 

grew out the best known to the bucks of the time being 

of taverns. 

the Thatched House aforesaid ; another was 
the Bedford in Covent Garden, of which you may read in 
the veracious pages of Smollett. Perhaps White's is the 
oldest of London clubs — you will find a good deal about 
it in Thackeray, who laid several scenes in his novels 
there. In former days play ran high and was not unat- 
tended with bad blood — some of which was " let" in duels 
in the Park. How degenerate would the clubs of to-day, 
with their devotion to afternoon tea, appear to the men 
of that period ! 



CLUB LIFE 



163 



Tn the story of last century political clubs played a 
great part. Over against each other (in history as in the 
street) stand the Carlton and the Reform. Of the inte- 
rior ol tlie lormer )'OU can see nothing unless you are a 
nieniher. for no stranger is allowed to dine there or even 
enter its rooms. But then 'tis whispered that a dinner at 
the Carlton Club is not a joy for eyer. The Reform, true 
to its i)rinciples, is liljeral. for it does admit the stranger 
w ithin its gates, and there, should a member inyite you, 
}ou may dine yery well. And per- ^^.^ 

haps the memljer of the Reform 
^\•ith whom you dine will not forget 
to tell }'ou that they ha\'e a better 
chef than there is across the road. 
Brooks's at one time \yas the great 
Liberal, (M* rather Whig, club, but 
though the Carlton and the Reform 
still remain the chief political clubs, there are now many 
others. As for example, there are the Conservatiye, the 
Junior Carlton, the Constitutional, the Junior Constitu- 
tional, the Junior Conseryatiye, the St. Ste- 
phen's, on the one side of ix)litics, and on the ,^.'"*';^ 

^ i political. 

other the Deyonshire ( which, howeyer, is now 
more of the "social" type than of the "political"), the 
Eighty, the National Liberal, and the New Reform. 
Considerable gatherings of members are to be seen at 
nearly all of these clubs, except when Parliament is sitthig, 




i64 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

in the afternoons, and again oh special nights during 
the year when there is " anything on." A few of these 
poHtical clubs have members who are not politicians first, 
last, and all the time; the Reform has several men of 
letters on its roll at present ; in the past it had Macaulay 
and Thackeray. The Eighty is '' addressed" periodically 
by leading lights of the Liberal party. A large number 
of journalists belong to the younger political clubs. 
Some of these political clubs are aristocratic, others 
are as distinctly of the middle class. But whether a 
politician is Conservative or Liberal, an aristocrat 
or of the middle class, he rarely dines at his club; 
hardly ever does he invite guests to dine with him at 
" the Club" ; he prefers to show his hospitality either 
at his own house, or, vicariously, as it might be put, at 
a restaurant. 

This is perhaps not quite so much the case at the Ser- 
vice clubs. The veteran has not taken with as much en- 
thusiasm to dining at the restaurant as has his junior, but 
still, even the most old-fashioned of the Service clubs is 
more or less deserted in the evenings. It is at 
Clubs naval j j ^^ ■ ^j aftcmoous that you shall see 

and mililary. -' 

many distinguished officers, both naval and 
military, at such clubs as the United Service, called by the 
frivolous the Cripples' Home, but spoken of as the Senior 
by the more sober-minded, the Army and Navy, otherwise 
known as the Rag, the Naval and Military, which has its 



CLUB LIFE 



165 



abode in the house formerly occupied by Lord Pahiier- 
ston, and the scene of Lady Pahiierston's once celel)rated 
" Saturdays," the East In(Ha United Service, tlie Junior 
Army and Xavy, and the Junior Naval and !\lilitarv. 
Some of the Service clubs are devoted to special branches 
of the military profession — such as the Cavalrv and the 
Ciuards' ; the former is in Piccadilly, the latter in Pall 
Mall. But of course many of the 
members of the Service clubs be- 
long to other clubs, and, also of 
course, officers who are on duty 
in London ha\'e their own mess. 
It may be of interest to state that 
at least in one case ( that of the 
Household Cavalry) the members 
of the mess sit down to dinner in ordinary evening-dress 
— this has the advantage of allowing these gentlemen to 
go into society without having to " change." 

There is in London an immense number of clubs de- 
voted to sport in one form or another. You can begin 
with the Alpine and go on to the Victoria. All kinds of 
sports and all forms of sport you shall find have club- 
houses — mountaineering, automobilism. coaching, ath- 
letics and swimming, chess, photography, fly-fishing, 
golf, pigeon-shooting, polo, cricket, rowing, rackets, 
skating, yachting. In this class you may include such a 
club as the Travellers' — its house is in Pall Mall, and it 




i66 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

is one of the most exclusi\'e in the town. In Piccadilly 
is the Turf Club, the most fashionable of all the sporting- 
clubs, and a centre of interest for the horse- 
racing world. Two or three of the sports- ^dubs^ 
clubs go in for sports all round, and a few of 
the social clubs add something- connected with sports or 
sporting to their ordinary programmes. The club which 
calls itself, and is. par excellence, the National Sporting 
Club is treated of in a separate article which will be found 
further on in this book. On certain afternoons and even- 
ings this club has competitions and contests. There are 
one or two of the other clubs that come within this para- 
graph which are tolerably wtII filled on special e\'enings, 
but here again they are better patronised during the after- 
noons, as a rule, than the evenings. So far as betting and 
card-playing are concerned, there is, as a matter of course, 
not a little of these going on all the time in most sporting- 
clubs ; but a card-room is to be found in the majority of 
London clubs, where whist, poker, or bridge, the most 
popular now of games of cards, is played for stakes of 
varying amounts. The Baldwin makes a feature of whist 
and bridge for small points. And as the evening rather 
than the afternoon lends itself to a game of whist or 
bridge, there is always a certain number of members to 
be seen in some of the clubs after dinner. And as for bet- 
ting on races, this form of gambling is so national a char- 
acteristic that the wonder is, not that there is so much of 



CLUB LIFE 169 

it in the clubs, but that there is so Httle. That there are 
two (»r three gambHng-chibs — which exist for o-aml)hng 
and nothing else — is well known to the initiate, but these 
lie as far under the surface of the life of the town as pos- 
sible. The activity of the police has rendered the exist- 
ence of these places exceedingly difficult, and in fact 
almost impossible. 

The vast majority of London clubs fall under the head 
of social clubs. Some of these minister to a class, as for 
instance the St. James's, which is not in St. James's but in 
Piccadillv, where gather together the diplomatists of all 
nations, and the various University clubs, to which be- 
long men from Oxford and Cambridge. Others, again, 
speciallv cater for artists, litterateurs, and dramatic folk. 
The gra\'e and ineffably respectable Athenjeum Club, 
which stands opposite the Senior, places literature in the 
forefront of its programme; but you will see not many 
literary men in it — rather will you behold, with a proper 
chastening of spirit, bishops, cabinet ministers, judges, 
and other erect pillars of the state. You have only to 
become a bishop to be at once admitted amongst its mem- 
bers — how simple a thing that is ! Of literary men you 
will see a number (come for afternoon tea, as in so many 
other clubs in these days) at the Saville, the Authors', the 
Arundel, and the Savage; of artists at the Arts', the Bur- 
lington, and the Savage; of dramatic people at the Gar- 
rick, the Green Room, the O.P. (Old Playgoers'), the 



170 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Playgoers', and, once again, the Savage. Some of these 
clubs have special nights, and in the next chapter you 
shall go to a Saturday at the Savage, dine, and spend 
the evening. Most of the social clubs bear no particu- 
lar label. You may start with Arthur's in St. James's 
Street, where you will find yourself in very 

Socia clubs. 

excellent society indeed, or Boodle's, in the 
same street, with its famous bay-window, and a class of 
supporters very similar to that at Arthur's. You may 
call in at the New Lyric, and wind up in the wee sma' 
'oors at the Eccentric — of which a sketch is given in a 
succeeding chapter. If you desire something particularly 
exclusive — well, there is the Marlborough in Pall Mall, 
of which His Majesty the King, when Prince of Wales, 
was a member. The social clubs of the town are many — 
of all shapes, sizes, and prices, so 
to say — and it is impossible to 
imagine that there exists a man 
who would not find himself pro- 
vided with a club to suit him 
(always pre-supposing he will suit 
the club) in one or more of them. 
A few of the clubs are extremely 
difficult to get into, whether as member or guest, as, for 
instance, the Beefsteak — more than one man, covetous of 
its membership, has found it " impossible." Again, there 
are some social clubs whose sociality is strictly confined 




CLUB LIFE 



171 



to particular nights or occasions. As illustrations, take 
two of the literary clubs, the W'hitefriars' and the N^ew 
Vagabonds'. Both of these are dinner-clubs, with discus- 
sions or speeches, or some other way of passing the e\'en- 
ing after coffee and li(iueurs ha\-e been sent round. Such 
exenings as these are pleasant enough, l)ut there is noth- 
ing that can be called wildly exciting about them. Then 
in addition to the diiuier-clubs there are the supper-clul)S, 
of which the most fashionalile and popular is the Grafton. 
The Grafton is a Saturday Night club, and the Grafton 
Galleries, where the club holds its revels, lend themselves 
admiral)l}- for such affairs. 'Tis said 
that the raisoii d'etre of the Grafton, 
as of other Saturday Night clubs, is 
the fact that as all the restaurants 
must close at midnight on Saturdays, 
there must be found some meeting- 
place (or rather eating-place!) for people "after the 
theatres" — hence the Grafton Supper Club. But it is pat- 
ronised by other people besides theatre-goers ; 
there is the attraction of dancing as well as of J^^^'"!*°" 

f> Supper Club. 

supper. And at the club there is a certain 
amount of dancing during the evening — both before and 
after supper; perhaps you may see thirty couples or so 
dancing. But the great majority don't dance: they sit 
about and talk and flirt — all the usual human business, in 
fact. But probably nowhere in the town will you see a 




172 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

bigger crowd of pretty, well-dressed women, and in the 
number there is a goodly sprinkling of the best-known 
actresses of the day, for amongst them and other mem- 
bers of the " profession" the Grafton is in high favour. 
And if you want to dance at two o'clock of a Sunday 
morning, why, then, get some one to take you to the 
Grafton, and " take no other." 

The clubs of London represent in a measure the whole 
life of London. They are not confined to people who are 
in society, or even on the outskirts of it, or to the middle 
classes ; the East End also has its clubs, or what corre- 
sponds to clubs. Every class of the community, even to 
the lowest with its thieves' kitchens, has something of 
the kind. Discussion clubs are not so numerous as they 
once were, and the days of what used to be known as 
Judge and Jury clubs are past. In Soho, at once the 
most mysterious, interesting, and sinister (pray let the 
word pass, Mr. Critic) district of London, 

Soho clubs. 

there is a variety of strange and curious clubs, 
some more or less well known, others deep and dark 
below the surface. It could hardly be otherwise in Soho, 
with its extraordinary mixture of all races and tongues. 
Of course, there is a Nihilist club — in all likelihood there 
are two or three Nihilist clubs — in Soho. And there are 
little clubs that meet in rooms far back from the shuttered 
windows that front the streets — mysterious little clubs 
that keep their business well out of sight. In this quarter, 



CLUB LIFE 



173 



at one time, there used to be more than one specimen of 
the " Niglit Chib," but such dens have been raided by 
the poHce out of existence. Still, elsewhere, a Night Club 
is to be found, and, in another chapter, you shall see one. 
It is said, at the time this chapter is written, to be the only 
one left in the town. 




CHAPTER Xli 

A SATURDAY NIGHT WITH THE " SAVAGES" 

" I am given to understand that your qualifications are that you 
must belong to literature and art, and also that you must be good 
fellows." — His Majesty the King (when Prince of Wales) in 1882. 

It is just about tweuty years ago since His Majesty, 
then Prince of Wales, uttered the words which stand at 
the head of this chapter, in a speech addressed to the 
assembled members of the Savage Club at one of their 
famous Saturday Night dinners. And the qualifications 
attaching to membership in the club are the same to-day 
as at that time, though the club itself has changed its 
character to a large extent since its first estab- 
lishment. There is no more celebrated club in 



Past 

and present. 



its way than the Savage. To it have belonged 
a great many eminent men, and it still has on its roll a 
large number of distinguished names. In the beginning 
of its history the Savage was (to quote from one of its 
members) " a small strip of that charming land of Bohe- 
mia," but though it still strives to cling to the ancient 
ways, it is undoubtedly a good deal less Bohemian than 
it used to be. Some one said of it the other day that it 
174 



WITH THE "SAVAGES" 175 

now contained more Respectabilities than Savages. In- 
deed, at the hmch-hour, seated at table, there may be seen 
ahnost any day, bar Saturdays and Sundays, half a dozen 
(or more) editors of the great London papers, and every 
one knows that there is no one more respectable in the 
'varsal world than the editor of a great London journal. 
To the primitive Savages these editors seated in their club 
would have been the saddest of spectacles. 

Mr. Harry Furniss in his entertaining Confessions of 
a Caricaturist, recently published, and a former member 
of the Savage, says : " The Savage Club is a remnant of 
Bohemian London. It was started at a period when art. 
literature, and the drama were at their lowest ebb — in 
the ' good old days' when artists wore seedy velveteen 
coats, smoked clays, and generally had their works of art 
exhibited in pawnbrokers' windows; when journalists 
were paid at the same rate and received the 
same treatment as office-boys; and when "^^^^ P/'-^i'^e 

•^ Savages. 

actors commanded as many shillings a week 
as they do pounds at present. This typical trio now exists 
onl)- in the imagination of the lady-novelist. When first 
the little band of Savages met. they smoked their calu- 
mets over a public-house in the vicinity of Drury Lane, 
in a room with a sanded floor; a chop and a pint of ale 
was their fare, and good fellowship atoned for lack of 
funds. The brothers Brough, Andrew Halliday. Tom 
Robertson, and other clever men were the original Say- 



176 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

ag'es, and the latter {sic) in one of his charming pieces 
made capital out of an incident at the club. One member 
asks another for a few shillings. ' Very sorr)^ old chap, 
I haven't got it, but I'll ask Smith !' Smith replies. ' Not 
a cent myself, but I'll ask Brown.' Brown asks Robin- 
son, and so on until a Croesus is found with five shillings 
in his pocket, which he is only too willing to lend. But 
this true Bohemianism is as dead as Queen Anne, and the 
Savages now live merely on the traditions of the past." 
So writes Mr. Furniss, though later in the same chap- 
ter he is kind enough to admit that " no doubt some 
excellent men and good fellows are still in the Savage 
wigwam." He talks of now finding in the Garrick Club 
the desired element in its maturity, that is, the true Bohe- 
mian character " the Savage endeavoured at that time to 
emulate." But even the Garrick at midnight, w'hen it is 
at its most Bohemian pitch — during the day-time it is as 
solidly conventional as any place in town — is not what it 
was. It is a Bohemia in evening-dress ! Fancy a Bohe- 
mia in evening-dress ! The truth is that there 

The '^ 

vanished is vcry little genuine Bohemianism in London ; 

Bohemians. 

and Mr. Furniss to the contrary notwithstand- 
ing, there is more of the real thing to be found surviving 
at the Savage than at the Garrick. Still, there is no great 
amount of it there either. More extensive remains, so to 
speak, of the old Bohemianism may be viewed at one or 
two of the smaller clubs, such as the Yorick. But the fact 



WITH THE "SAVAGES" 177 

is that tlie clublands of literature, art, and the drama are, 
for much the most part, peopled with i)rosper()US men 
who, if the}' do not fare sumptuously ever^• dax', li\e in 
a state of a continuous series of " square meals" — a state 
which would ha\e heen esteemed h}' the old Bohemians 
one of monumental luxur}-. As a writer on this subject 
lias well remarked : " The poor man of genius— often 
drunken, dirty, and disreputable — is wellnigh as extinct 
as the dodo." 

How the Savage came to get its name is not (juite clear. 
Sala always declared that the name was taken in mere 
fun — the idea l)eing largely assisted by the fact that the 
club was presented with some old tomahawks and mocas- 
sins, a collection of spear-heads and wanlpum-belts, and 
a scalp ! Be this as it ma}', it is certainly the case that 
" Lo. the poor Indian," otherwise the North 
American abori_i;;'//t\ is much in evidence not sava^e^ 

only in the decorations of the club itself, but 
also on those elaborate menus which make their appear- 
ance on the occasion of the Saturday Night dinners — 
to one of which you shall presently go. On the walls 
of the clul) are to be seen a large number of savage 
weapons and trophies, and there is at least a grain of 
truth in the legend that the chairman keeps his fellow 
Savas'es in order witli a " ""reat hip" club." For the gavel 
or mallet (it isn't a mallet, but no word more appro- 
priate suggests itself) with which the chair calls atten- 

12 



178 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



tion to its behests is undoubtedly a genuinely savage; 
article — quite literally, it is a savage club. Now, when 
" poor Lo" was engaged in an earnest argument with a 
rival, he did not use a club at all; the use of such a 



A\c:/^y. 



59UPS 
Mi^oiii^ic ^(.h Turtle 

PiLLfTJop ScLejilaCAPni^AL. 

t/^TREE 

PATTIES OF C«icKe/<( L ^^nn 

joi/vY 

fVK QOABTCR or UnB r«n,aro Mid ■ SpimcJi 

cKnt 

PARTRIDGE'S CMID> 

SVC E'er 5 



-^.;<^. 




cAiAiR . y 

weapon would probably have damaged the scalp of his 
opponent, and that was a thing which Lo's Feeling for 
the Beautiful did not permit. So, 'tis evident that while 
the Savasfes of London regard the North American 



WITH THE " SAVAGES" 179 

Hiavvathas as their prototypes, they yet hold other 
savages in reverence. 

The chil)-house is on Adelphi Terrace, overlooking the 
ri\er. And, of conrse, }"on \\onl(l like to take a peep 
at the rooms hefore yon sit do\\'n to dinner with vonr 
hosts. The dining-room, an apartment of some size, has 
in it a piece of fnrnitnre yon don't often see in dining- 
rooms, and that is a grand piano. The fact that it is 
here at once snggests that the Savage hreast is soothed 
— well, as savage hreasts are nnderstood to l)e socjthed 
all the world over. On the walls are a great manv pic- 
tnres, the work of well-known artists. Across a hallway 
is a snpper-room, and in it }'ou will see on the walls a 
collection of the fancifnl menns, done hv members of the 
clnh. of l)ygone Saturday dinners. These menus are not 
the least interesting things in the club. On 
them there are portraits oi the Savage chief n^emfs^ 

in tlie chair, (_)f some of the more prominent 
of his supporters, and of the guests, on the particular 
evening. To refresh }'our memory of these menus one 
of them is reproduced here. Extremely contagious to 
both dining-room and supper-room is a liquid-refresh- 
ment bar, and here Savage hospitalit}' will not be satisfied 
unless }-ou get outside of a more or less considerable 
quantitv of fire-water, ^'ou \vill, of course, remember 
that the consumption of fire-water has notoriousl}' 
always been a marked characteristic of savage (small s, 



i8o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

please, printer — so as to prevent any misunderstanding) 
life. Upstairs are the library, billiard-room, and card- 
room. You really have no business to glance into the 
library — it is the den specially reserved in the club for 
Savages. But if you do happen accidentally, as you 
might put it, to look in, you may behold evidence that 
the historic " savage roar" is not unheard in these parts; 
in other words, you will see an Appeal to Members not 
to make quite so much noise as it seemed they had done 
on some previous occasion ; there may be even more 
than one such pathetic Appeal. And now you sneak 
out of this savage lair into the billiard-room, where is 
a capital table; and then into the card-room, in which 
is a table whose shape may hint to you that these gentle 
Savages are familiar with " seeing" and " raising" other 
things besides " hair," but doubtless in a strictly " lim- 
ited" manner. 

And now you descend into the dining-room, where 
the feast is spread. Along the end of the room next 
the river runs a long table: in its centre is your Savage 
host, right and left of him are the guests of the evening. 
At right angles to the " high table" are the other tables, 

and if the occasion is a big one, they are some- 
Irsavagls"' ^^'hat apt to bc morc than a bit crowded. You 

look around, and you observe you are in very 
excellent company. The dinner itself is modest enough, 
but it too is excellent — soup, fish, entree, joint, remove, 



WITH THE "SAVAGES" 183 

sweets, ices. And all the time the room is in such a buzz ! 
The hum of talk, the cackle of lang'hter, the splutter of 
corks, the whole agreeable if not ideally beautiful human 
business of eating and drinking, fill the place with what 




the Scottish paraphrase calls " a joyful noise." Dinner 
over, the chairman pounds three times (the mystic 
Savage number) on a table with the savage club here- 
inbefore mentioned, toasts the King, and allows the 



1 84 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



assembled braves to puff the Pipe of Peace. And next 
succeed more talk, more laughter, more noise — which, 
as might be expected, has now an appropriately " full" 
tone. 

Presently, the club again is hammered on the table, 
and the chairman rises to propose the health of the guest 




-Tne. M^R-^e-^T ko - pip Pip pit - Por^e^ 

or guests of the evening — there are generally several. 
The guests of the Savages are always those who have 
" done something." It hardly matters, short of burg- 
lary, what the something is, for the hospitality of the 



WTTII THE "SAVAGES" 



i8s 



club is of the most catholic and tolerant character. So 
the Savages have welcomed with fit entertainment great 
(and not so great — for everybody can't be great) folks 
of evcr\- kind — soldiers, sailors, artists, an- 

^1 , • • . 1 , Guests of the 

thors, actors, mnsicians, war-correspondents, savages 

a!id such lesser lights as princes, and dukes, 
and members of Parliament. The guests are all of the 
male persuasion, and the Sa\'ages themselves leave be- 




hind them their scjuaws in their wigwams in the wilds 
of Kensington and Clapham. This contempt for women- 
kind, how^ever, is an ancient, ineradicable " note" of your 
true savage. On the whole, the Savages of Adelphi 



i86 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

Terrace are not over-fond of listening to long or many 
speeches. Is there some subtle connection between this 
fact and the absence of the fair? Nay, nay, it cannot 
be! Yet — yet — you donno! As a rule, at these dinners 
there are either no speeches, or else they are " cut very 
short." But to every rule there are exceptions, and when 
a really bright man talks, why then really bright men 
are very glad to listen to him, unless, as sometimes un- 
fortunately happens even in the best-regulated families, 
they happen to want to talk too. Now, the want-to-talk 
is the worst-felt want of life, and the Savages feel it as 
strongly as most, but they set their faces like Stoics 
against giving in to it. Therefore is the pow-wow cur- 
tailed. At most, " few and short" is the motto. 

But the chairman is speaking. His remarks are of 
the humorous variety, and you will be surprised how 
little sad they make you. As a general thing there is 
nothing more depressing than a humorous speech, noth- 
insf duller. But dulness is at a tremendous discount 
among the Savages, and the chairman is well aware of 
it. And so he says only a few words, more or less com- 
plimentary (if he can make them less complimentary, 
but without offence, so much the more will 
Toasting ^^ | relished ) to the guest or guests of 

guests. - / & & 

the club, and he tells a few stories. Lord 
Roseberry, who among other things is a wit, once defined 
memory as the feeling which steals over us when we 



WITH THE "SAVAGES" 187 

listen tt) the original stories of our friends. And it may 
be that vour memory will be touched by the chairman's 
stories, but more likely than not it won't. Mere is a 
savage, a genuinely savage story, which was heard on 
one ctf these occasions — that on which the guests of the 
club were several of the war-correspondents who had 
won distinction in South Africa. 

After having said a lot of nice sugary things, he pro- 
ceeded to add the salt of humorous depreciation. He 
remarks that the main elements in the make-up of a 
war-correspondent are his facility for spending money, 
and his difficulty in accounting to his " proprietors" for 
it, " A short wa}' with war-correspondents," 

. 1111 J. ' < < A Savage 

he says, shcuild be: no accounts, no money. savage story. 
Then he illustrates. " Once upon a time," he - 
continues, " a new missionary Bishop, with very strict 
ideas, went out to a diocese in savage parts, in succes- 
sion to a Bishop who had been somewhat lax. The new 
Bishop saw that his flock smoked, drank, ate, wived, to 
excess. Sad at heart but resolved to show them that 
they must ' change all that,' he determined that tobacco, 
gin. feasting, and polygamy must go. He called the 
chief to him, and told him what was in his (the Bishop's) 
mind. 'What!' exclaimed the chief; 'no more bacca !' 
' No/ replied the Bishop firmly. ' \\diat !' said the chief; 
'no more square-face!' 'No,' answered the Bishop 
.sternly. ' XMiat ! no more fat pig sing-song!' 'No,' 



i88 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

cried the Bishop, with decision. ' What !' shouted the 
chief; 'no more than one wife!' 'No,' returned the 
Bishop, very peremptorily. The chief looked at the 
Bishop, but the Bishop showed no signs of relenting; 
his fiat had gone forth. ' What!' said the chief angrily; 
' no more bacca, no more square-face, no more fat pig 
sing-song, no more than one wife!' 'No,' said the 
Bishop. ' Then,' decided the chief, ' no more alleluia!' " 




SAVAGE CLUB CONCERT. 



Yells of delighted laughter greet the chairman's story 
— none laughing more consumedly than the war-corre- 
spondents themselves. After the chairman come the 
responses of the guests, who of course catch the Savage 
ear, but may not always catch the Savage heart ; some- 
times they catch something else. As, for example. Not 



WITH THE "SAVAGES" 189 

long ago a young member of Parliament, who is un- 
questionably a ver\- clever fellow, but who unluckily for 
himself made the mistake of posing as A Superior Per- 
son, in which role he read the assembled Savages a little 
essay on English, was gravely thanked for the " fifth- 
form" lecture he had been good enough to deliver. The 
same member, a moment earlier, reduced a certain noble 
duke to the common level by reminding him that at school 
he had been called " Grease-pot." 

After the speeches comes the serious business of the 
evening, which takes the form of an improvised enter- 
tainment contributed con auiorc by the Savages. It is 
a smoking-concert of a superior sort. And now you will 
listen to some of the cleverest entertainers of the town, 
that is to say, of the world. You will perhaps hear a 
tenor tell you once again that the Miller's Daughter has 
grown so dear, and, sung like that, she grows dearer 
every trip. Then will follow a recitation, a piece of 
declamation, an amusing sketch, a funny story; then 
another song — perhaps in a thunderous, immensely 
patriotic bass. Next an artist will draw a lightning 
picture — more probably a dozen of them, 
taking for his subjects, it may be, the chair- s^lHH^ 

man, the guests of the evening, or some well- 
known Savages. These portraits are almost certainly 
to l)e of the species yclept caricatures, but caricatures or 
not, they are sure to be good. After the pictures there 



I90 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



may come an original poem, sure to be funny, or another 
song, humorous or sentimental, as the case may be. Or 
something on the piano, or on the violin, also as the case 
may be. And then you may hear some plain truths about 
a certain Dr. Samuel Johnson from his friend Boswell 
— which may remind you of some " plain truths" re- 
cently put forth by a living author with respect to a dead 
one. And so the evening goes on, quickl}-, trippingly, 
entertainingly — this is one of the entertainments that do 
entertain. Between eleven and twelve the assembly 
begins to thin, as the Savages go off to wigwam and 
squaw and papooses. By midnight it is pretty well all 
over. 




CHAPTER XIII 

WITH THE " eccentrics" 3 A.M. 

" Come along to the Eccentric for a bit of supper."— Any Member. 

The invitation at the head of this chapter has been 
given you. Perhaps you have never entered the hos- 
pitable doors of the Eccentric Club, but you have heard 
about it, and the very name itself piques your curiosity. 
Besides, it is now nearly three o'clock, and you are raven- 
ous. Why you should be up so late ( or' early ) is your 
own affair, and you are not called upon to incriminate 
yourself. But the invitation is extended, and you gladly 
accept it. The rooms of the club are iii Shaftesbury 
Avenue, not far from Piccadilly Circus, and hither you 
hie with the friendl}- member whose guest you 
are to be. En route you will probably make Eccentrics^? 
incjuiry as to how the club comes by its sug- 
gestive appellation, and you hear, with some little natural 
disappointment it may be, that the only eccentric thing 
about the club is its name. But has the club no special 
features? you ask; and then you hear that it has at 
any rate one peculiarity, and this peculiarity consists in 

certain of the members from time to time making up 

191 



192 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

" surprise" theatre-parties. A furniture van, for choice, 
is hired, the " surprisers" get into it, drive off to the 
particular theatre selected for the visit, and then descend 
upon that theatre in force and capture the stalls (with 
the benevolent consent of the management or without 
it). There are not a few theatrical managers who are 
quite willing, strange as it may appear, to be Eccentri- 
cised in this manner — more especially as the raiders pay, 
pay, pay. 

Arrived at the entrance of the club, you go in from 
the street, now silent and deserted save for one or two 
wandering shadows, and ascend a flight of stairs, the 
walls of the stairway being decorated with large photo- 
graphs of celebrities. You then walk into a handsome 
room — the smoke-room and general talk-room of the 
place. A big canvas by " P.A.L." (Paleologue) imme- 
diately takes your eye — it is the only picture in the room. 
Its subject is mythological — a group of nymphs and 
satyrs having a high old time, in a climate, so to speak, 
where even the fig-leaf was considered too pronounced 
a garment for really well-dressed people. At 

The 

smoking- one sidc of the painting is a grand piano, and 

room. 

on it are books of cuttings, menus, and other 
memorabilia. In another place you are sure to notice a 
programme of a theatrical entertainment given by the 
" Lambs" of New York, a club whose members are also, 
by arrangement, members of the Eccentric, and vice 



WITH THE " ECCENTRICS" 



193 



z'crsa. Tlie piece given on that occasion was " His 
Cliristnias Alimony," and the programme bears the 
signatures of a great many distinguished " Lambs," 




foremost amongst them being tliat of Mr. Nat Good- 
win. The badge of the Eccentric is a stuffed owl, from 
whose mouth there depends a clock whereon appear the 
figures " Nil" and " IIII." And vou will see the badge 

13 



194 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

repeated in the pattern of the carpet on the floor. About 
this clock more presently. 

But your host has ordered supper for you, and you 
proceed into the dining-room, which is in several respects 
one of the most striking sights in London. To begin 
with, the walls are covered with paintings and " things," 
such as old picturesque weapons and the like. On the 
cross-piece of the doorway through which you have just 
come in is the verse — 

" O wad some Power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as ithers see us !" 

(And you think it wouldn't be a bad idea if these lines 
were placed above the doorposts of every club smoking- 
room you know.) In one corner of the room is the bar, 
and the barmen are kept pretty busy, for though it is 
three in the morning there are plenty of members about. 
And on the walls at the same side of the room are a 
series of clever portraits of some of the better-known 
Eccentrics, done by Julius Price, the heads being life- 
size, the bodies dwarfed. Then you look at the other 

pictures. There, flanking both sides of one 
dk.!ng-room. °^ ^^"^^ doors, are Dudley Hardys ; beside one 

of them is a Ludovic — " St. Eccentricus and 
the Temptation" (an Eccentric rendering of the St. An- 
tony business) ; a little further along is a " Nocturne 
in Blue and Silver" ; near it is what might be called 



WITH THE " ECCENTRICS" 



195 



"Venus through the Looking-Glass" ; then more pic- 
tures. \\)U will hardly fail to observe that the ladies in 
these paintings belong to the period when clothes were 
at a fa])ulous discount, and Ijargain-sales were still un- 
in\enled. Ha\-ing gazed on the charms of these nude 
figures, you look at the clock, the most characteristic 
piece of furniture about the club. Set in a frame on 
which is writteii the legend of the Dancing Hours, 
accompanied by the words — 

" When time turns torment 
A Man becomes a Fool," 

is the famous clock, on whose face there are displayed 

but two hours, " XH " and " HII," which may serve to 

suggest to you that the 

club takes no count of 

time from midnight till 

four in the morning. If 

you look at the sketch of 

it in this chapter you will 

see exactly what it is. 

Well, you have supped 
— perhaps you have had 
some l^laf, such as had- 
dock and poached eggs, 
for which the club has a 

particular liking — and there is still half an hour or so 
before the Eccentric reluctantly closes its doors upon you, 







196 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

and your host asks you up to the billiard-room — there's 
" just time for a game." But when you go upstairs, you 
find more members up here playing the wee sma' 'oors 
away. You look on, and have a last drink and a smoke. 
Here, in this room too, are many portraits of distin- 
guished people — not necessarily are they all members of 
the club, but they are all of men who have won the great 
diploma — they have all " done something." 

Eccentrics. 

Your host tells you meanwhile something 
about the members, mentioning w-ell-known actors, ar- 
tists, dramatists, financiers, and you can see for your- 
self from the predominant type of face, that the last- 
named seem to be in something of a majority. You have 
heard of that strangely beautiful creature called the " Oof 
Bird," and you conclude without much hesitation that he 
must be very much like an owl, with a clock hanging out 
of his beak, whereon (on the clock, not the beak) is 
marked " XII " and " IIII." An Eccentric bird, in fact. 
But now it is time to go, and you sally forth into the 
street. 



CHAPTER XIV 

" LA VIE DE BOHEMe" 

"... And then vogue la gaVere! and back again to Bohemia, 
dear Bohemia and all its joys. . . ."— Du Maurier, Trilby. 

Shakespeare gave " Bohemia" a sea-coast; it would 
he nearly as incorrect to say that London nowadays has 
within it a Bohemia. In former times there was some- 
tliing of the sort in Chelsea, hut London has never had a 
Bohemia, well delimited and recognised as such, in the 
same sense that Paris has, or perhaps rather had, one in 
tlie " Latin Quarter." Not that London has ever lacked 
Bohemians in plenty, but it has had no real Latin Quar- 
ter. Xo English author can ever write about a London 
Bohemia as, for instance, Du Maurier wrote 

No London 

of the Paris Bohemia. In Trilby he speaks of Latin 

1111 " Quarter. 

those who only look upon the good old Quar- 
lier Latin (now no more to speak of) as a verv low, 
common, vulgar quarter indeed, deservedly swept away, 
wliere ' misters the students' (shocking bounders and 
cads ) had nothing better to do, day and night, than mount 
up to a horrid place called the thatched house — la chaii- 
mU'rc — 

199 



200 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

' Pour y dancer le cancan 
Ou le Robert Macaire — 
Tou jours — ton jours — tou jours — 
La nuit comme le jour . . . 
Et youp ! youp ! youp ! 
Tra la la la la . . .la la la!'" 

Well, London has no " good old Quartier Latin." In a 
kind of a way the Soho district may be called a Latin 
Quarter of London, but in quite another sense from that 
used in connection with Paris. For one thing, the system 
of art-teaching in England is very different from that 
wdiich prevails in France. In the latter country, or rather 
in Paris, for in art Paris is France, as it is in so many 
other things, " misters the students" study and work in 
the ateliers of the great painters as pupils or disciples, 
w'hereas in England they do nothing of the 
dubs°" ^''^ s*^'"^' ^^^ study and work more or less indepen- 
dently of the recognised Masters, such as the 
Academicians and the like. On the other hand, the stu- 
dents and the younger artists who ha\'e got beyond the 
student stage, and some of the older men too, have banded 
themselves into clubs for the purposes of mutual criticism, 
encouragement, assistance, and sympathy, the practical 
side being kept well to the fore. There are some art clubs 
which are purely social. And, again, most of the greater 
painters are members of clubs that have nothing to do 
with art. But there are two or three clubs which are de- 
voted solely to art, by which here is meant the Art of 



"LA VIE DE BOHEME" 201 

Painting. In this chapter }-cm are invited to take a look 
at two of these clubs, the Langham and the London 
Sketch Clubs. What may be styled their Night Side is 
one of the most attractive phases of London. 

The Langliam, which has its rooms in a little street 
w ithin a stone's throw of the Langham Hotel, is the older 
club ; indeed, it is the parent of the other. It 
got to be somewhat overcrowded, and threw Lan-iinr 
off a colony, as it were, which presently set up 
business for itself as the London Sketch Club. To the 
Langham have belonged (and still belong) some of the 
best-known painters of the day — you will see them on 
those occasions when the club has its reunions, which 
generally take the shape of the smoking-concert that is 
so common a feature of the Night Side of London. But, 
for the most part, it is a considerable number of the 
younger men, who are following in the footsteps of their 
elders, some very near and others, of course, at some dis- 
tance, who use the Langham, and the same is true of the 
London Sketch Club. Two features both clubs have in 
common : one is, as might be expected, they are closed as 
soon as work can be done in the open air ; and the other 
is that each, during the winter season, devotes one even- 
ing each week for exactly two hours to painting two sub- 
jects — of which more anon. In fact, these two-hour 
sketches (naturally one doesn't imagine pictures can be 
styled " finished" that have takeri only two hours' work) 



202 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

are the sole feature of the London Sketch Club. At the 
Lang-ham, however, there is on the other evenings of 
the week painting from life-models. In one 
features ^^ ^^^^ rooms is the " model-throne," and round 

it is arranged a kind of gallery, with head- 
lights, for the men to paint at. If you take a glance about 
you, you will see the rooms are something of the quaint- 
est, with plenty of artist properties to be seen. Work 
over for the evening, the artists compare notes — a pro- 
cess which can hardly be otherwise than valuable. They 
then have some supper, to a running accompaniment, you 
will readily believe, of badinage and sportive remark. 

The artist who is illustrating this book is a member of 
the London Sketch Club, and you shall now go with him 
to it, and have a peep at one of those two-hour 
sklt'cher'^ sketching tournaments of friendliest competi- 
tion which are the specialty of this institution. 
Their rooms are in Bond Street at the Modern Gallery, 
and they meet every Friday evening while the winter 
season lasts. Generally there is a choice of two subjects, 
a landscape subject and a figure subject, so as to give the 
landscape-men and the figure-men an equal opportunity. 
One or two artists — a man like Dudley Hardy, for ex- 
ample — will one evening select a landscape theme, on 
another a figure subject. The former may be *' The Land- 
was broad and fair to see," while the latter may perhaps 
be " After the Ball." The artists begin work (" to slop 



"LA \'1E DE BOHEME" 203 

colour," in llie words of the candid friend) at seven 
o'clock ; at nine tlie whistle is blown, and the brushes are 
thrown dow n. Tlien there succeeds a cjuarter of an hour 
of frank but friendly criticism. Each artist has his own 
idea how the subject set is to be treated and hence there 
are as many ways of treating it as there are artists. For 
instance, take the subject " After the Call." 

Mr. Jack Hassall's idea of it will be. you may suppose, 
an old gentleman sound asleep in a chair, his head drop- 
ping on to his crumpled shirt-front — there is a certain 
suggestion of the old chap having partaken of 
the ball supper not wisely but too well. Mr. ^^^J^ 

Robert Saul)er will present the figure of a 
dainty girl, a little bit tired perhaps, but not too tired to 
studv her programme with interest as she recalls the men 
who ha\-e been her partners. Mr. Cecil Aldin will show 
us a match at polo, where men are " after the ball" in a 
\erx different sense from that given to the phrase by the 
two foregoing painters. Mr. Starr-Wood will, you may 
be sure, have a humorous concept of the subject. Mr. 
Lance Thackeray will as certainly delight you with some- 
thing pretty. Mr. Tom Browne, who is acting in this 
case as your guide, philosopher, and friend in a double 
sense, will undoubtedly have given the subject a touch of 
that broadly human humour for which he is famous. 
Likely enough, he will show up a realistic sketch of a 
most powerful, not to say brutal, footballer, in full stride 



204 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

" after the ball." And so on. And now you have mas- 
tered the feature of the Sketch Club, so far as its work- 
ing side is concerned. x'\nd when the cjuarter of an hour's 
criticism (not at all a mauvais qiiatre heure!) is over, the 
members sit down to supper at a long table, at which they 
again, to use the classic terms, " distinguish themselves." 
You see the whole thing is a happy combination of work 
and play. 

At both the Langham and the London Sketch Clubs 
there is no little jollity. Larks, frolics, jokes, some of 
them of the practical variety, tricks, and genial buffoon- 
eries are " frecjuent and free" amongst their members, as 
might be anticipated from the fact that so many of them 

are young men — some of them are " very 
Bohemians. youug indeed." But what an infection of 

good spirits, what a contagion of gay and 
genuine camaraderie, characterise them all ! Here, at all 
events, are to be found some true Bohemians. For Bo- 
hemia is not the name of a country, or a place, or even 
of a " quarter," but is that of a condition, a state of mind 
and heart, the outward expression of a temperament 
which revels in the joy of life. Yet it must be confessed 
that there is less of the Bohemian in the art-life of Lon- 
don than there used to be. The artist has become a 
member of the " respectable" classes ; he is in " society" 
— if he wishes to be in it, and he generally chooses to be 
so. True, the English artist never was of the Murger 



"LA VIE DE BOHfeME" 205 

type. If you have read Stevenson's novel, The Wrecker, 
you may remember how Loudoun Dodd speaks of being 
" a Httle Murger-mad in the Latin Quarter." And he 
sjoes on to sav. " I lool<ed with awful envv on a certain 
countryman of my own who had a studio in the Rue 
Monsieur le Prince, wore boots, and long hair in a net, 
and could be seen tramping off, in this guise, to the worst 
eating-house of the quarter, followed by a Corsican 
model, his mistress, in the conspicuous costume of her 
race and calling." Well, never was there anything of 
this sort in London. And at the Sketch Club you will 
notice that misters the artists are dressed very much like 
anybody else. It may be that one reason of this is be- 
cause the spirit of caricature is pretty ranipant there, and 
has several very able interpreters. So it is not well to 
have any affectations, mannerisms, or peculiarities. If 
vou have any of these things, you will be made to feel 
you are better without them. 

Here is an illustration, taken from an article on " Lon- 
don Sketch Club Frolics," which appeared in the Art 
Record last year : " One prominent member has so great 
a propensity for speech-making that the others, upon a 
certain occasion, rose as one man to violently discourage 
the orator. A number of cards and canvasses, etc., were 
prepared with appropriate legends thereon, so that when 
the speechist rose to his feet at the first provocation, there 
was a sudden movement all over the room, and upon the 



2o6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

ends of sticks, and grasped in upheld hands, the afore- 
mentioned notices were thrust out so that there was 

nothing to be seen but such boldly lettered 
aiTorat^n'"^ cxclamations as ' Chuck it,' ' Rats,' ' Drop it,' 

' Dry up,' ' Give us a charnse!' and other en- 
couraging remarks. The remedy was efficacious." 

The next quotation from the same article is of a dif- 
ferent order, but is an excellent sample of Sketch Club 
humour. " Phil May once made a famous speech. He 
rose with great ceremony, and, gravely taking out a pair 
of spectacles, adjusted them on his nose with much 
gravity. He then coughed, and paused while he placed 
a pair of pince-nez over his spectacles. Having done 

this, he coughed again, and looked around, 
orati^n"^ thcu taking out another pair of glasses, put 

them on also. The members now sat waiting 
anxiously. He beamed through his various spectacles 
upon them, and then opened his mouth, but didn't speak, 
because he suddenly felt in his pocket and found there 
some more spectacles, which he similarly placed over the 
others. This went on for some time, Phil always open- 
ing his mouth to speak, and then pausing to put on an- 
other pair of spectacles, until he had no less than seven 
or eight pairs. Then he spoke at last. He said ' Tut, 
tut!' and sat down gravely." 

At the beginning and end of the season (October to 
May) these art clubs have an entertainment to which 



"LA VIE DE BO HEME" 207 

guests are invited. At each there is an exhibition of 
pictures : at the spring one, the work shown is that which 
has been done in the winter ; at the autumn one, the paint- 
ings which have been painted during the summer months 
when the ckiljs are closed. You have had the good Kick, 
for it is good kick, to be invited to one of these functions 
— let us say at the London Sketch Club Autumn Exhibi- 
tion and Smoker. In the rooms vou will see 

Sketch Club 

a good many distinguished people, and some exhibition 

- -111 ^"^ smoker. 

people who will be even more distinguished 
by and bye. You notice, of course, the walls are covered 
with paintings, and you get a catalogue. From this you 
learn that the officers and council of the club include 
George Haite, Dudley Hardy, Walter Fowler, Frank 
Jackson, Giffard Lanfestey, Sanders Fiske, Paul Bevan, 
Cecil Aldin, Tom Browne, Walter Churcher, John Has- 
sall, Lee-Hankey, Phil I\Iay, Robert Sauber, Lance 
Thackeray, Claude Shepperson, and Montague Smith. 
And amongst the other members you see other well- 
known names — they are not all of painters, for you ob- 
serve that Conan Doyle, most catholic of men, Frankfort 
Moore, one of the wittiest, Arthur Diosy, one of the po- 
litest, and others who do not, strictly speaking, belong 
to the brotherhood of the brush, are on the list. Many 
of these gentlemen you may meet in the course of what 
is sure to be a pleasant, not to say festive meeting. 
You go the round of the pictures, and you will indu- 



2o8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

bitably find much to admire. The canvasses are usually 
small, and are not priced too high for modest purses. 
And you may pick up for a few guineas a " bit" which 
in the future, when its painter has risen to greater fame, 
may be the best investment of your life. Somewhere 
between eight and nine the smoker begins. By this time 
the rooms are very full, and it is difficult to move about. 
A chairman appears, and announces in stentorian tones 
that " our frivolities will commence." There follows a 
cheerful noise on the piano, and next a song — generally 
of no kill- joy sort. And then you may see a very excel- 
lent " turn," as they call it in the music-halls, by Starr- 
Wood, who will do facial impersonations, so to speak, of 
some of the best-known members of the club, while you 
look on. He will begin with Mr. Haite, the 

The smoker. 

president ; it is an excellent rendition of Mr. 
Haite's face — a trifle caricatured, of course, but emi- 
nently recognisable. You observe that Mr. Haite laughs 
as consumedly as any one, and loudly acclaims the " facial 
artist." Then after Mr. Haite come Mr. Phil May, Mr. 
Hassall, Mr. Dudley Hardy, and many more victims of 
the clever impersonator. Next on the programme are 
two or three songs — all of them good, rollicking, robusti- 
ous ditties. Between the songs are pauses, when there 
is conversation — and likewise drinks. Most of the men, 
you may now notice, are in ordinary dress, though some 
are in the regulation evening costume. And of the latter 



^ . 5-T0R-V • 

OF • THE^- 
DOH • 




"LA VIE DE BOI-ItME" 



211 



a word. But liere you may again see all alwut it in the 
veracious article already alluded to — 

" It is not always wise to enter the Ijarbarous precincts 







of the club in evening-dress. Several individuals did so 
upon a certain occasion. But very little time had elapsed 
when their immaculate shirt-fronts were covered with 



212 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

drawings like the pages of a sketch-book. Almost imme- 
diately the wheeze, which had been intended to annoy 
rather than please, leapt into sudden popularity, so that 
those who were unadorned immediately sought such 
decoration, and pretty quickly every shirt- 
ascTiivasles! ^^^^^ ^as drawu or scrawled over. One indi- 
vidual declared that he intended to cut out the 
front from the shirt for the purpose of framing it, and, 
considering it bore signed drawings by Phil May, Dudley 
Hardy, Tom Browne, Hassall, Sauber, Cecil Aldin. and 
others as famous, the notion was reasonable. It is said 
that this incident is the origin of the phrase, ' Our artist 
at the front.' " Well, there is the story as set forth in the 
Art Record, but it is possible enough that you may go to 
the club smoker with the most impressive amplitude of 
" biled shirt" in the world, and yet never a single brush 
or pencil touch it. 

After the songs there will come perhaps a short diver- 
tisement in the shape of some feats of mimicry or ven- 
triloquism. You may hear a man imitate a child's voice 
— from babyhood up to five or six years of age — with 
such absolute fidelity, that if you close your eyes you will 
be bound to believe you are in a nursery. And you laugh 
— you can't help it, you laugh till the tears run down your 
cheeks. Other forms of entertainment are provided for 
you in abundance. A favourite seems to be the music of 
an orchestra composed entirely of members of the club. 




^k^ 



"LA VIE DE BOHEME" 215 

Recently, there was to be seen an orchestra, which called 
itself " the celebrated Bousa Band," and on the door as 
you entered there was hung up an announce- 

Tbe 

ment that during the evening it would play a celebrated 

Bousa Band. 

selection of music, " as played before all the 
crowned heads of Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Ire- 
land, and Bosham." You may wonder where Bosham is, 
or perhaps you know. But it doesn't really matter — you 
take the kingdom of Bosham for granted. And, pres- 
ently, the band walks upon the stage, carrying enormous 
instruments of brass-covered cardboard or papier-mache. 
You do not recognise the faces of the performers, be- 
cause they have covered them with masks, nor do they 
wear such clothes as you would expect them to wear; 
they are dressed in uniforms of sorts, and their coats are 
decorated with vast discs of tin in lieu of medals. With 
much solemnity do they begin, but hardly have they com- 
menced to emit their music ( ?) when there is a general 
desire felt to laugh and shout rather than listen to it. In 
truth, the music is as unmusical as well it can be. But 
everybody is in high spirits, and naturally the selections 
of the Bousa Band are encored with even greater hearti- 
ness, not to say enthusiasm, than was displayed by His 
Majesty of Bosham. Piece follow^s piece in rapid succes- 
sion, each being welcomed with uproarious delight, until, 
finally, the repertoire of the band is exhausted. Bousa 
himself, who has conducted their efforts with wonderful 



2i6 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

dash and go, disappears with his band, while the room 
fairly shakes with the plaudits of the crowd. 

Other things there will be. all lively and amusing, until 
near midnight. But at that hour the members have 
agreed to depart — at least that is the order nowadays. 
Formerly, and more particularly at the Langham, it was 
the custom to keep up these entertainments into the " wee 
sma' 'oors," but it is significant of that " respectability" 
to which reference has already been made, that midnight 
is now considered quite late enough for the termination 
of these festivities. Many of the artists live at some dis- 
tance away, and they want to get home by the last train 
or the last 'bus, as it may be. In any case, they and you 
will have spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening. 



CHAPTER XV 

SUNDAY NIGHT AT THE NEW LYRIC 

A LARGE, somewhat smoke-begrimed, but yet hand- 
some building (a block they would call it in America) 
stands within a stone's throw of Piccadilly Circus, on 
Coventry Street, between Oxendon Street and W'hitcomb 
Street. The western part of it is occupied by the Prince 
of Wales Theatre — the eastern by the New Lyric Club; 
it is to one of the Sunday evenings of the latter that you 
are now invited. First, there will be dinner at eight, with' 
music ; to that will succeed an entertainment at ten 
o'clock in the theatre of the club ; then there will be sup- 
per at midnight. But before you go in to dinner you, as 
a stranger, are asked if you would like to see 
over the club — and of course you would. And ciub-house^ 
certainly you will not regret it, for the interior 
of the New Lyric is quite different from that of any other 
club in the world. To begin with, there is the theatre, 
decorated in cream and gold, with a pretty little stage, 
and accommodation for three or four hundred people. 
Here, as you will be told, have appeared some of the 

greatest artists of the time. Next, you ascend the stairs, 

217 



2i8 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

and are shown the various rooms, the decoration and fur- 
niture of which make each of them distinct and even 
unique. For instance, there is the Egyptian Room wdth 
its Cairene lattice-work, or, again, the Cabin Room, 
where you wall fancy yourself on board an Atlantic liner. 
Or you may prefer to sit down for a moment in the Bam- 
boo Room, or the Music Room, or the Ladies' Drawing 
Room (this club makes a feature of lady-guests), or one 
of the other rooms. But everywhere you will see tasteful 
and artistic and harmonious ensembles — all your sur- 
roundings are pleasant and agreeable. And now you 
dine, either in the Lunch Room or in the Dining Room. 
Well, every well-appointed dinner is very much like every 
other well-appointed dinner, but while you dine your host 
tells you the past story of the place; and you listen — if 
for no other reason than that no other club has had a 
story at all like it. 

The New Lyric is in some respects the successor of 
the once famous Lyric Club, though its present state is 
no more than a pale reflection of the glories that belonged 
to the older club. The Lyric occupied the same club- 
house — indeed, the building was opened in 1888 under 
the auspices of the Lyric. But the history of the Lyric 
went further back than that. Its germ was seen in those 
reunions Major Goodenough held many years ago in St. 
George's Square. At these there met together members 
of the aristocracy and of Upper Bohemia in friendly 




" p-. 



SUNDAY NIGHT .\T THE NEW LYRIC 221 



(oiOnej^ 



intercourse as on common ground — that was not so gen- 
eral a thing as it is nowadays. These reunions grew and 
broadened out. and the scene of them after a time was 
transferred to Park Lane. The next step was the forma- 
tiun of a ckib called the Lyric, with rooms in 
Bond Street. In 1888 the Lyric took up its , . J^,^ 

i Lyric Club. 

abode in Coventry Street, and for a few mem- 
orable years the club, and the various entertainments it 
gave, w-ere the talk of the town. And besides the house 
in Coventry Street, there was a 
country-house at Barnes, where 
during the summer there was per- 
petual festival. But alas ! a dark 
shadow passed over the club, and 
it came to grief. As an interest- 
ing souvenir of the Lyric Club 
there is here reproduced, as show- 
ing the extraordinary activities of 
this club, the testimonial given to 
the secretary. Mr. Luther Mun- 
day, after the club had been wound 
up. It will be noticed that it is signed by prominent 
people, two or three of whom have passed away. The 
testimonial also tells, in condensed " tabloid" form, the 
history of the club. 

Dinner over, you descend again to the theatre, where a 
smoking-concert is to be held. (Is there something to 




222 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

be said for the man who declared that the Night Side of 
London Hfe would be tolerable but for its smoking-con- 
certs? Well, it all depends — which is about the only- 
generalisation it is ever safe to make.) Members of the 
New Lyric dining in the club on Sundays have seats 
reserved for themselves and their guests, and your host 
pilots you to a capital place. The auditorium is fairly 
well filled, but could hold a good many more without any 
crowding ; you notice also that the men are in a large 
majority, though the actual number of ladies (guests) 
present - is considerable. All the male creatures are 

smoking — none of the ladies are, though up- 
Lydc smoker stairs at diuucr, or rather after it, you noted 

all those charming beings had their cigarettes 
with their liqueurs and coffee. But then you have seen 
over and over again that ladies smoke in the big restau- 
rants if they have a mind to, and no one thinks anything 
about it ; that is one of the changes which has come about 
in the last few years. But this is a digression. Well, all 
the members of the New Lyric are smoking — they smoke 
" all over the place." You now look at your programme, 
and you find on it the names of some well-known enter- 
tainers, vocalists, reciters, mimics, and so on — and per- 
haps the names of some others which are not quite so well 
known to you. For all that, the programme is excellent. 
Even if it were not, the numbers succeed each other 
quickly, and the whole show is over in a little more than 



SUNDAY NIGHT AT THE NEW LYRIC 225 

an hour — so you have not much chance of being bored, 
especially as refreshments of all kinds are ever ready to 
your hand. The concert at an end, the members and 
their friends moxe up to ihe various rooms, and chat till 
su])pcr is announced. At two a.m. everybody goes off 
home. 



15 



CHAPTER XVI 



A NIGHT CLUB 



"... We were conducted by our leader to a place of nocturnal 
entertainment. . . ."■ — Smollett, Roderick Random. 

It may be that when this book is piibhshed there will 
not be a single night club left in London ; at the time this 
chapter is written, there undoubtedly is one, but it is be- 
lieved to be the only one now existing in the town, and it 
may very well have disappeared long before these words 
meet the eye of the reader. The fact is that night clubs 
have practically become impossible, or almost impossible, 
in London, thanks to the ceaseless vigilance of the police, 
whose constant raiding of such dens has made keeping 
these places a dangerous, and therefore an unprofitable 
business. From time to time one is started, but it is 

quickly " spotted" and suppressed. Only a 
ni°hTdubs ^^^'^ years ago there were many of them open, 

furnished with ballrooms, bars, supper-rooms 

(which had a way of being turned into gambling-hells 

on the slightest provocation), and a bevy of painted 

ladies — the whole protected by bullies or " chuckers-out." 

A few of these places of " nocturnal entertainment," as 
226 



A "NIGHT CLUB" 227 

Smollett phrases it, were sufficiently notorious — perhaps 
the most famous, or infamous, was the " iVlsatians," who 
had their rooms in Regent Street. The night club to 
which }()U shall now go calls itself a Supper Club — to it 
for the purposes of this chapter will be given the name of 
the A[i(lnight Supper Club. Of course, that is not what 
it calls itself, Imt it will serve. 

There is little use going to a place of this sort much 
before one o'clock in the morning. The restaurants and 
public-houses close, it will be remembered, on most nights 
at half-past twelve; it is after that time that the night 
club begins to fill up — so that it is apparent that the par- 
ticular club to which }'ou are going should be named the 
After Midnight Supper Club. You have set out with a 
general idea where the place is ; you have been told it is 
somewhere off Tottenham Court Road, in that part of 
London, north of Oxford Street, and south of Maryle- 
bone Road, into which Soho has overflowed. And you 
ha\-e made up your mind to find it, and having found it, 
to gain admittance somehow or other. So you go your 
way up Tottenham Court Road, up and down which 
many people are still moving, notwithstanding the late- 
ness of the hour. You cast a searching look up the side 
streets, until you come to one, in the midst of which is a 
long row of cabs. You wonder what are so many cabs 
doing here in this obscure street at this time o' night, and 
then it strikes you that this is the street for which you are 



228 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

looking — the Midnight Supper Club is somewhere here 
or hereabouts. You walk slowly along one side of the 
street, stopping frequently and peering about. 
KiidriigiT A waiter is standing on the steps in front of a 
^""r"^ building, from the windows of which the light 

Club. o' ^ 

streams, and fancying you have hit on it, you 
ask him if he knows where the Midnight Supper Club is; 
he stares at you somewhat superciliously or suspiciously 
or derisively (you never knew before that a waiter's face 
could express so many things!), and tells you he never 
heard of such a place! Afterwards you find out that he 
must have been making fun of you, for the Midnight, 
you discover later, is situated exactly opposite the very 
house on the steps of which that perfidious scoundrel 
stood and humbugged you. Just as you are wondering, 
not yet having tumbled to the true inwardness of the 
waiter's statement, whether you are in the wrong street, 
or if you will keep on trying here, you see a couple of 
ladies come out of a door on the other side of the street, 
and you watch them get into a cab and drive away. An 
idea at once comes to you, and you cross over to the cab- 
rank. As you do so, you hear one cabby tell another, 
" There's a dance to-night at the Tivoli — that's where 
they're off to." Further encouraged by this remark, 
you ask the cabby who has just spoken if he knows 
where the Midnight Supper Club is, and he replies, 
"Yes; there it is!" and he points to the door out of 



A "NIGHT CLUB" 229 

which the two ladies emerged. So you make for the 
door. 

It is here that your troubles really begin. You have 
found out the place, but how are you to get in ? You are 
probably not alone, and you hold a hurried consultation 
with your friend or friends. A scheme at length is hit 
upon. One of you is to pretend that he has an appoint- 
ment with a certain Mr. Smithson, whom he is to meet 
here. This one-of-you knocks at the door — the porter 
outside lets him do this much. The door opens 
cautiously ; there are whispered words ; the . ^"^"'"^ 

'' i- , V. admission. 

door closes, and swallows up the inquiring, 
greatly daring man. After a time he returns, and tells 
you it is all right. His friend, Smithson, is not inside, 
nor indeed is he known to those who watch over the Mid- 
r.ight Supper Club — which is not exactly astonishing 
news to you. But he, the friend, who has been carrying 
out this little scheme, has arranged with the secretary of 
the club to become a member ; the payment of a guinea 
will admit him to all the privileges of membership for the 
balance of the year — among them the right to introduce 
friends free. The guinea is paid, and you enter, escorted 
by the New Member, negotiating successfully on the way 
no fewer than three barriers, each of wdiich separately is 
quite strong enough to stop a rush, whether from inside 
or outside. The barrier next the door is a particularly 
stout one, being strengthened by bars of iron — you 



230 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

wonder if it is meant to check an invasion in force, say, 
by the police ? Before you are allowed to get past the last 
barrier, your names are put down in a book, but it is 
highly probable that you have assumed noms-dc-gucrre: 
it is therefore unlikely that this book will ever trouble you 
again. At last you are made free of the night club, and 
you walk in. 

On the ground floor are three rooms, all brightly lit up. 
Nor is the decoration of them much amiss. A dado of 
dark-red runs round each room ; above this is a profusion 
of mirrors, alternating with squares of reddy-brown 
paper; above this again is a frieze — of sorts. The gen- 
eral effect is undeniably pleasing and cheerful. The fur- 
thest room is a sitting-out room ; the next has some chairs 
scattered about, but the chief thing in it is a bar ; the 
third room is the dancing-room — it too has a bar, but it 
also has a piano. As you took your tour through the 

place, it so happened, perhaps, that the first 
Interior room was empty. In the next, however, there 

were two or three men and as many " ladies." 
The latter w^ere in evening-dress ; they were behaving 
with the utmost quietness and propriety ; they looked 
rather dull and more than a trifle bored — did these poor 
creatures, who are supposed to be the lures which draw 
men to the club. While you are making these sapient 
observations you hear the notes of the piano sounding 
from the next room, and thither you go. Here there are 



A "NIGHT CLUB" 233 

perhaps twenty people — eight females, all of the same 
class, the rest of course males, one or two of whom are 
in evening-dress, but the others in any kind of attire, you 
might say. Two couples are dancing a waltz — the sole 
music l^eing that of the piano ; the floor, which is covered 
with linoleum or some similar material, is not the best in 
the world, and there is not much enthusiasm or go about 
the dancing. Still it may inspire you. There is a good- 
looking girl in light-blue sitting by herself, and you move 
up to her. and ask for the honour. She dances beauti- 
fully. She tells you something about herself — does this 
poor child of the night. She speaks with a slightly for- 
eign accent ; indeed, she tells you that she is a German, 
and has been in England but a few months. The dance 
over, you ask if she will have some refreshment; and, 
wonderful to relate, she takes a lemon squash! She 
seems quite a nice quiet girl. 

While you are having your drink — if you are wise you 
will follow the young lady's example, and take a lemon 
squash — you take another look round, and make some 
guesses about the people amongst whom you are. Two 
of the men have a striking resemblance to prize-fighters, 
and you surmise they are here — in case of accidents, let 
us say. Another man of a pronounced Jewish type ap- 
pears to be a very prominent member of the club — you 
afterwards learn that he is the proprietor, and if you 
watch the women present very carefully you will notice 



234 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

how eager they are to be first in his good graces. Others 
of the men lounge about the bar, while most of the women 
sit by themselves on one side of the room. In very truth, 
the scene is of the dullest. The music strikes up again, 

and you invite a handsome girl in black to 
room ^"""^" dance. She accepts, and as you spin round 

you ask if she comes often to the place, and if 
it is always as quiet as it is this night. Yes, she tells you, 
she comes often, but this is not a good night — so many 
are away at other dances; generally it is very lively and 
gay. Is she English? No; she comes from Finland. 
(Nearly all the women, you find out, are foreigners.) 
On the conclusion of the waltz you ask your partner if 
she will have " something" — and she also takes a lemon 
squash. She gently hints that she likes you very much, 
and will you take her up to supper ? You are rude enough 
to say you've had supper, and the girl, who is probably 
well-seasoned to such rebuffs, turns awav without a mur- 
mur. And so the night wears on. Everything is ex- 
tremely decorous and unspeakably dull; were it not for 
the presence of these unfortunate women, it would be 
quite unremarkable in any way. And so far as you can 
see the rules of the club are strictly enforced, only mem- 
bers being allowed to purchase drinks. 



CHAPTER XVII 

THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 

" There is absolutely nothing illegal in boxing itself. It is indeed 
a noble and manly art, which I hope will never die out of this 
country."— Sir Charles Hall. 

The clul)-honse stands on the north-west corner of 
Covent Garden, and has something of a history. Time 
was wlien Covent Garden itself was the centre of the 
town, and its residences were tenanted W tlie nobihty. 
In these days Bow Street was a fashionable promenade 
for beanties, great ladies, wits, and beaux. In the middle 
of the seventeenth century what is now the club-house of 
the National Sporting Club was the home of an Earl of 
Sterling; later, it was the house of the famous Sir Harry 
\'ane. Still later, it was the residence of that Earl of 
Orford xnIio was better known as Adiniral Russell. But 
fashion moved away from Covent Garden and 
"went west." Somewhere about 1770 Rus- "' ''°'^'' 

sell's house was transformed into a hotel— it is said that 
It was the first hotel in London. It was a large affair, 
\\itli accommodation and stabling for a hundred noble- 
men and horses. At the beginning of the nineteenth 

235 



2z(i THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

century the place was known as the Star — from the num- 
ber of men of rank who frequented it. Coming further 
down the record, the building appears as Evans's Supper 
Rooms and Music Hall ; still nearer the present time, it 
was a noted sporting-tavern where fights were arranged 
amidst much betting, whilst the evenings closed in it as 
the " Cave of Harmony." The genius of Thackeray in 
The Nezvcomes has immortalised some of these entertain- 







ments. " The scene of that chapter in which the Colonel 
rebukes the disreputable artist is laid practically in the 
National Sporting Club," write the authors (Messrs. A. 
F. Bettinson and W. Outram Tristram) of the history of 
the National Sporting Club, a book published towards the 
end of 1 90 1. " The New Hall was built in 1856 from 
designs by Mr. Finch Hill, and cost £5000. Seconds 
invite competitors there now to a Magic Circle where 
seconds of another kind used to ask another kind of 



THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 237 

audience if they would come with them ' o'er the downs 
so free.' Glees have given way to gloves, and Bishop has 
been deposed in favour of Bettinson." In other words, 
the National Sporting Club, with Mr. Bettinson as its 
manager, is now the principal centre in these islands of 
the " Noble and Manly Art." 

The club has been in existence about eleven years, and 
its annual season — in which it has its boxing contests and 
competitions — is from September or October to April or 
May. Its " theatre" has been the scene of many famous 
encounters, some of the most notable pugilistic Cham- 
pions of the World having appeared in it. The following 
" first-class fighting men" who have figured on the list of 
the National Sporting Club may be mentioned : Plimmer, 
Peter Jackson, Frank Slavin, Jim Stevens, Bill. Corbett, 
Driscoll, Pedlar Palmer, Frank Craig (the " Coffee 
Cooler"), Burge, Kid M'Coy, Kid Lavigne, Dave Wal- 
lace. Alf Wright, Jim Barrv, Dido Plumb, Jack Roberts, 
and Harry Harris. 

As is well known, some of the contests at the club have 
had unfortunately a fatal ending. Out of many hundreds 
of fights it was hardly possible not to anticipate some- 
thing of the kind might happen. Presently you shall 
enter the club, see the Doctor, Dr. Jackson Lang, one of 
the most genial and kindliest of men, examine the com- 
petitors, then you shall descend into the theatre, and be- 
hold the battles in the ring. First, however, you must 



238 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

listen to what Lord Wolseley, then Commander-in-Chief 
of the Army, said at the club in 1899, when he was dis- 
tributing prizes to certain soldiers who had taken part in 
boxing competitions. Lord Wolseley said : " I am de- 
lighted with the very good boxing witnessed. W'ell do I 
remember this Hall (being older than most gathered 
here) when devoted to other uses, and a man 
Wolseley ^^'^^^^ ^ fiddle was the entertaining subject, 
in praise of Evcrybody is now pleased to see it used for 

boxing. -' -' i 

more suitable purposes. Magnificent speci- 
mens of humanity and well-trained athletes are constantly 
taking part in a noble game and affording amusement to 
the community. If I were to exempt the great use to our 
country of this gallant and noble game it would be unfair 
and unkind, for its usefulness is unbounded. I sincerely 
trust it may flourish, as such exhibitions are the true test 
of British pluck. The club has contributed largely to a 
much-needed want, and long may it continue to show its 
members and guests as good sport as it has done this 
evening. As military men we are all pleased to see such 
manly fighting, and under such conditions as have pre- 
vailed to-night it is especially adapted for soldiers when 
they have to fight, as sometimes happens on the field of 
battle, without arms. It is conducive to endurance and 
pluck, and makes men of them — the sort of men who 
alone can defend us against our foes." Of course there 
are two views of boxing: one that indicated above, the 



THE NATIOXAL SPORTIXC; CLUB 241 

other that it is an iiiimitig-atecll)- brutal business. Equally of 
course, the truth as usual lies somewhere between extreme 
views. And it is well to remember that in countries where 
boxing' is unknown, the knife, the dagger, the stiletto take 
the place of the fists. And the evil, if evil there be, in box- 
ing battles, it must be borne in mind, is reduced to a mini- 
mum at the National Sporting Club, where the utmost care 
and caution are exercised by those who superintend them. 
But it is high time to take a look within the club. It is 
evening, and Covent Garden, which all da}- long has been 
filled with garden and market produce drawn from far 
and near and the vendors of the same, is hushed and still. 
You find vourself in the Entrance-hall of the club, and 
you notice the fine staircase, which formed part of the 
Britauiiia, one hundred gims, flagship of Admirai Russell 
at the battle of La Hogue in 1692, handsomely carved 
with anchors, ropes, and other symbols. This Admiral 
Russell was no other than that Earl of Orford of whom 
mention was made in the opening paragraph of this chap- 
ter. You pass on into the Coffee Room, a large and com- 
fortable chamber, its walls hung with sporting prints and 
portraits of celebrities and a series of sketches 
by " Cee Tee." In one corner of the room is ciub-housJ" 
the bar. and in the intervals between the con- 
tests and boxing matches you may see round and about 
it some of the greatest sportsmen of England, discussing 

events over foamy tumblers or tankards. And here, per- 

16 



242 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

haps, you may be introduced to the oldest member of the 
club, a hearty gentleman who tells you he is seventy-six 
and walks ten miles every day of his life; you borrow 
the happy phrase of Oliver Wendel Holmes, and congrat- 
ulate him on being seventy-six years young! Young, 
heavens, yes ! for he drinks from a great pot o' beer ; 
you are filled with envy, as it is years since your doctor 
told you that beer was not for you and other gouty bodies. 
From the Coffee Room you move on into the Billiard 
Room, on the walls of which is depicted the story of the 
Merry Wives of Windsor. Beyond that again is the 
Theatre, and in its centre is the Ring — which is a figura- 
tive expression, for the stage on which the matches are 
fought out is a square. Expert opinion from all parts of 
the world has pronounced the Theatre of this club an ideal 
place for watching boxing, and, of course, for boxing too 
On the occasion of a great contest the place is crowded 
with hundreds upon hundreds of gentlemen in evening- 
dress, all keenly watching the struggles in the Ring, 
between professionals or amateurs, as the case may be. 
But first of all you shall go with the Doctor, Dr. Jack- 
son Lang, and see those who are about to box undergo 
his examination; if they cannot pass it, they cannot 
appear in the Ring. This examination is of the most 
searching character, but as those who come up for the 
contests have all been thoroughly trained, it is not often 
that any one is rejected. In the case of novices it is 



THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 245 

different. And here yon shall be given a glimpse of 
something you are not very likely to see for yourself, and 
this is the Doctor's examination of a batch of novices. 




D'^ -Jack:" 



Dr. Jackson Lang's room is not a large one ; it is adorned, 
however, by some of the sketches of our mutual friend, 
Mr. Tom Browne. While the examination is going on, 



246 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

a secretary sits in a corner, and jots down the names of 
the would-be competitors. " Come along!" cries the Doc- 
tor, and there appears a giant from Ratcliff. The Doctor 
looks at him, as he tells him to expose his body. " Feel- 
ing well and fit?" asks the Doctor. " Yes." " When 
were you ill last?" " Never ill," grins the giant. " What's 
your weight?" And some other particulars are asked of 
the giant. Meanwhile the stethoscope is counting the 

beats of the giant's heart. " Been here be- 
thTocfctor. fore?" asks the Doctor. "Once." "Did you 

go through all the rounds?" or " How many 
rounds?" the giant is asked, and his answer being satis- 
factory, and his heart found to be sound, he is dismissed 
as being " all right," and he goes off to get ready for the 
fray with a large and abounding smile. But the next 
man, who hails from Deptford or Kentish Town or from 
some other district of the town (your boxer, like certain 
lords, is always Jones or Smith or Robinson " of" Some- 
where), is perhaps not so fortunate. The usual interrog- 
atories are put to him by the Doctor, who looks at him 
with a shrewd though kindly smile ; the heart's action is 
examined ; it is not what it should be. " Come back after 
a while," he is told; " you are too much excited at pres- 
ent" — this is the Doctor's friendly way of intimating that 
this particular candidate for the honours of the Ring is 
rejected; after all the others, who troop one by one into 
the Doctor's sanctum, have passed, or not passed, he 



THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 247. 

returns, as he does not wish to take the hint that has 
been given him, but this time he is told that he is not fit, 
and he retires in deep dejection. And so on it goes ; the 
procession of novices defiles before the Doctor — there 
nia\- be a dozen of them or more. Each of them has his 
peculiarities oi dress and accent and appearance. They 
follow all sorts of trades and occupations: one is a car- 
riage-painter, another is a sailor (his splendid chest is 
gorgeous with fine tatooings of Japan!), a third keeps a 
stall in the Borough, a fourth is a coster, a fifth is a 
labourer, a sixth a bricklayer, a seventh a soldier, etc. 
There are two things which are to be noticed: the thor- 
oughness of the examination, and the class from which 
the novices are drawn. 

Enough of this. You are anxious to see the boxing 
match, and you take your place on the floor of the 
Theatre, on the stage l)ehind it, or in the gallery. In the 
centre of the stage behind the Ring are the referee and 
the timekeeper; on either side of it, or in such positions as 
give the best view of the operations, are the judges. The 
Ring is what is known as the twenty-four-foot ring; it 
is surrounded by ropes bound in cloth ; in the corners 
are the seconds of the boxers, each having bv him towels, 
sponge, and water for refreshing his particular man. 
Enter the contestants, attired for business ; they put on 
the regulation gloves ; the manager steps forward and 
announces their names in a loud, clear voice; a bell 



248 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 




In the Rin^. 



sounds, and the boxers move into the centre of the Ring 
and shake hands. This is to be a contest of so many 
rounds, two minutes each, and the 
contest is decided by " points" — that 
is, in the event of neither being in- 
capacitated in one way or another. 
You look on at the first round, and 
it is not in human nature not to feel 
the excitement of the occasion. The 
fact is that there is nothing in the 
world more exciting than a first-class well-contested box- 
ing match. As you watch the two men fighting you 
mark their fine physique ( and probably wish 
you were built on somewhat similar lines). 
They are good specimens of athletic humanity; their 
skins are like satin, and the muscles show up like knotted 
ropes. Then, as blows are ex- 
changed, you wonder just what it 
means to stand up and receive them 
— and give as good as one gets, or 
better. It means pluck, courage, 
judgment, skill, as well as the clear 
e}'e and the sound body — all very 
excellent things. You look on, and "^ 

if you are not already a partisan of one or other of the 
men, you find your sympathies alternating between the 
two as the fight goes on. If the contest is fairly even, the 




rv 



THE NATIONAL SPORTING CLUB 249 

" opening" will not be of the " terrific" sort, but cautious, 
each man feeling for his chance. And as the chance pre- 
sents itself, there will be " straight lefts," " low body 
blows," and " sichlike" until " time" is called by the time- 
keeper sounding his gong. The boxers, whose skin in 
places is turning from white to red, retire to their corners, 
where their seconds immediately treat them to rubbing- 
down, a taste of water, and much towelling and flapping 
of towels. A few seconds pass, '' time" is called, the 
gong sounds, and at it the two men 
go again. And so on through the 
various rounds, until one of them 
has established his superiority over 
the other. It is not often there is a 
draw, but it occasionally happens. 
The match settled, you return to 
the CofYee Room — for your coffee, 
another contest, and you stop for it also. 

One of the great features of the National Sporting 
Club is its concerts, at which the best talent appears. Its 
house-dinners are remarkably enjoyable functions — the 
Cave of Harmony returns to town again, but under much 
pleasanter conditions. At the concerts lady- vocalists fre- 
quently are to be seen and heard, and these are the cMily 
occasions on which ladies may get a peep into the club. 
Among these privileged performers have been Miss Cissie 
Loftus, Miss Louie Freear, Mrs. Langtry, and Mrs. Beer- 




250 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



bohm Tree. These ladies appeared in connection with the 
Referee's Children's Dinner Fund, which the National 
Sporting Club, among others, took under its hospitable 
wing. The National Sporting Club has a very extensive 

membership, the most prominent among these 
"Corin"thians." " Coriuthiaus" of the twentieth century being 

Lord Lonsdale (President), Sir George Chet- 
wynd, Sir Claude de Crespigny, Major-General Fox (In- 
spector of the Army Gymnasia), Captain Bower, Captain 
Edgeworth Johnstone, Mr. C. W. Blacklock, Mr. Eugene 
Corri. Mr, Angle, Mr. J. E. Dewhurst, Mr. G. Dunning, 
and Mr. George Vize. 







CHAPTER XVIII 



A SCHOOL FOR NEOPHYTES 



" The defeated man had gahied a great reputation from an initial 
encounter at Habbi jam's." 

National Sporting Club, Past and Present. 

There are very few people interested in the Noble and 
Manly Art who have not heard of Bob Habbi jam's 
School for Neoph}'tes in Newman Street — perhaps the 
outside world may not know much about it, but most 
patrons of the Ring know it well; in its way -there is no 
more famous establishment than Habbijam's^ There you 
mav see as fine exhibitions of scientific boxing as any- 
where in London — and almost every night, though the 
gentle reader may not suspect it, several boxing matches 
mav be seen in one or more parts of the town. But, if 
you are interested in this kind of thing, you can't do 
better than look in at Bob Habbi jam's, where 
you are pretty certain to get what the Sporting Wight's spon." 
Life terms " A Grand Night's Sport." Well, 
you shall now spend a couple of hours there. You have 
managed to get the entree. You find your way into a 
room of verv moderate dimensions — so moderate, in fact, 

251 



252 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

that the Ring occupies pretty well the whole of it, there 
being just left space sufficient to allow four or five steep 
benches to be ranged against the walls on two sides of the 
Ring. Mr, Habbijam presides over the entertainment in 
person, and he takes good care that the combatants don't 
shirk their work, as you shall presently see. 

Half a dozen events with gloves are to be run off this 
evening, you are informed, and having climbed with some 
difficulty into or on one of the precipitous benches afore- 
said, you take a look at the empty Ring, and then at the 
house — there are about seventy or eighty of Bob's patrons 
present, and they are of all ranks and degrees, the top and 
the bottom of the social scale on an equality, for there is 
no such leveller as Sport. Now you hear it announced 
that the first number on the night's programme is a Six- 
Rounds Contest between a Paddington man and one from 
Walworth; hard on the announcement the men, accom- 
panied by their seconds, enter the Ring, their 

A Six- 

Routids " decks cleared for action," and excellent speci- 

Contest. 

mens, in all respects, you observe, of the boxer 
sect. No time is wasted. Habbijam's exists for business, 
and nothing else. In the first round the Paddington man 
gets the best on " points," by the aid of a very straight 
left in the face, but in the second round the Walworth 
champion returns the compliment, and plants a hard left- 
hander on the other's eye. In the third round the Wal- 
worth lad is sent down four times from very straight and 



A SCHOOL FOR NEOPHYTES 255 

hard left-handers in the face; however, he manages, 
'tween-whiles, to get in a couple of good left-handed 
leads. In the next round he does better, and holds his 
own fairly well, but in the fifth he goes groggy. In the 
sixth he stands up gamely to the end, l)ut the Paddington 
man wins. Both men, during the contest, receive much 
applause, and on its conclusion the loser gets as hearty 
cheers as the victor, for he has fought a good fight. 

To this there succeeds another Six-Rounds Contest 
between a representative of Bloomsbury and an Oxford 
boxer. It begins in a very fast manner, and involuntarily 
}-ou hold your breath and open your eyes very wide, as 
the rattling blows follow each other in quick order. It is 
a contest in which both men work hard, dealing each 
other plenty of left-handers on the face, the head, ribs, 
and so forth. There is some " tricky" fighting — meaning 
thereby that there is as much scientific avoiding of blows 
as well as giving and taking. In the end the decision is 
in favour of the Bloomsbury boy, but the Oxonian has 
done very well, and has no reason to be ashamed of him- 
self. Indeed, both contestants have done so well that 
Habbijam promptly says they are lads to his liking, and 
offers them a purse of £20 for a Fifteen-Rounds Contest, 
to be fought in three weeks' time ; the offer is as promptly 
accepted. But the next contest on the programme is of a 
different kind, and meets with the proprietor's strong dis- 
approval. In this fight another Bloomsbury warrior is 



256 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



cpposed by a man from Mile-End. They fight two 
rounds in a rather lackadaisical manner, showing small 
desire to hit out hard and straight. Their work is clever 
enough, but it is not " meant." So Mr. Hab- 
^o'^ppeT' bijam steps forward and stops the affair, re- 
marking, " I pay my talent the highest wages 
of any one, and I expect a fair quid pro quo for my out- 
lay. When I am not satisfied with any turn on the pro- 
gramme I stop it." And stop this contest he certainly 
does. A prompt man is Bob Habbijam, as the following 

anecdote taken from the pages 
of the history of the National 
Sporting Club, already re- 
ferred to in a preceding chap- 
ter, sufficiently attests — 

" Tradition tells that Hab- 
bijam took as his partner one 
Shah Home. A brass plate 
inscribed with the two names 
decorated the door of the famous establishment. A 
Contest took place, and on the junior partner de- 
volved the duty of taking the money. He took it. 
But on the following morning £30 was not forthcom- 
ing. Shah (the fierce light of unusual responsibility 
having made him blind to the world) had not the 
least idea where the £30 was. It was probably in 
some Persian harem. He was asked to fetch it. But 




^ 



A SCHOOL FOR NEOPHYTES 



257 



Promptness. 



wliile he was still on the (juest of the Golden Fleece, 
a nusterious individual called Hedgehog (by reason 
of his spiky hair) was ordered to be ready with a 
screwdriver. On the reappearance of Shah, 
not bringing the shekels with him, a silent 
signal from Habbijam set Hedgehog to work on the brass 
plate. It was detached. It was cast into the street, and 
a new method of dissolving business combinations was 
signalled by these ever-memorable 
words, ' That ends the partner- 
ship!'" 

So much by way of aside. You 
shall now see the last Six-Rounds 
Contest, making the fourth provided 
for your entertainment this evening. - 
It turns out to be the best thing you 
ha\e seen. One of the rivals is a 
soldier, a lance-corporal ; the other hails from Isling- 
ton. The soldier tops his opponent by several inches, and 
seeks to gain an advantage by the impact as the Isling- 
ton boxer comes rushing in. But the latter uses his 
" fives" very cleverly and fast, and soon goes ahead. In 
the second round the corporal gi\'es the other some hard 
raps on both sides of his head, and in the third round 
sends him to the floor with a hard right-hander on the 
jaw. \\'hether you like or dislike boxing, this is the kind 
of blow which wakes — you can't help it ; it is involun- 




258 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

tary — in you a strange and most extraordinary savage 

thrill ; it makes some primitive instinct quiver within 

you ; something aboriginal yet horribly contemporary, 

so to speak, rises and asserts itself. There is 

Floored. 

a savage in all of us ! And not very far away 
either. But the Islington man gets up from the ground ; 
he is not done with yet. He delivers some telling blows 
on the region of the soldier's kidneys, and with effect. 
The fifth round has its varying fortunes, but the soldier's 
right eye is half closed, and the other man's upper lip 
is badly cut. Both men are a good deal distressed, but 
they stand up to each other well in the final ; all declare 
it to he a splendid exhibition of courage, endurance, and 
skill. There is not much to choose between the two, but 
the soldier is declared the loser. Bob offers to put up a 
purse if they will try again, and the soldier says he would 
like to meet the Islington chap once more, but, alas ! he 
is under orders to go to India next week, and so must 
decline. Bob and the audience express their regret, and 
hearty applause is given the gallant soldier boy. But 
what will his Colonel say to him to-morrow ? 

You have now had your fill of fighting (vicariously) 
for one evening. Another night — in the next chapter — 
you shall see boxing at the East End at " Wonderland" 
— a name which covers one of the most remarkable 
phases of the Night Side of London. 



CHAPTER XIX 



WONDERLAND 



" East is East, and West is West" — but in London they have points 
in common. — A gloss on Rtidyard Kipling's line. 

" Wonderland" is in the heart of Whitechapel ; from 
St. Mary's Station you can reach the place in a minute. 
Tlie name, " Wonderland," can hardly be said to be de- 
scriptive in this particular instance, for " Wonderland" 
turns out to be a gigantic building, formerly used as a 
music-hall, or for baby or beauty shows, but -which is 
now the scene of boxing contests. The boxing to be 
seen there is well enough ; as a matter of fact, " Won- 
derland" has witnessed some of the best contests in Lon- 
don ; but it is the place itself, with its illuminating 
glimpses into East End life, that is most vitally inter- 
esting. Let it be granted, as Euclid used 
to sav, that vou have selected a Saturdav a Saturday 

night. 

night — the particular Saturday night when 
" Jewey" Cook and Charley Knock box an eight-rounds 
draw. You have found your way to the place, and you 
notice that there is quite a large crowd outside the doors ; 
still the crowd is not waiting for a chance to go in, but 

259 



26o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

for news of the result of the battles taking place within. 
They have not the necessary shilling or sixpence that 
gives admission, but they have their sympathies, and 
they are anxiously expectant. You pass into the build- 
ing — at the door stands a solitary policeman. You pay, 
perhaps, the highest price, three shillings, which entitles 
you to a seat on the stage. You have come a quarter of 
an hour before the time announced for the beginning of 
the first match, but the vast building is already packed, 
except on the stage, where there is still room. And 
what a dense mass of human beings there is ! Probably 
there are two thousand men crammed into the space. 
Most of them are young — the great majority are between 
twenty and thirty, and nearly all of them are of the 
easily recognisable East End types, though there is to be 
seen here a heavier percentage of Jewish noses than is 
usual in an East End assemblage. The proprietor of 
" Wonderland," you see from the programme, is a Jew; 
one of the boxers, to judge from his nickname, is a Jew; 
and, quite unmistakably, your Hebrew of Aldgate is well 
represented to-night, and takes a keen interest in the ring 
and its doings. 

The programme is a long one — you are to get plenty 
for your money; there are no fewer than ten events on 
the list : three eight-round contests, five of six-rounds 
each, and a four-round " go." First of all, a competi- 
tion for 9 St. 2 lb. men is begun. The crier of the events, 



" WONDERLAND" 261 

a man with a strong, clear voice, steps into the ring, and 
at his call six aspirants come out from the audience and 
stand in a line beside him. All about the ring is the hum 
of talk. Lads from Bermondsey are backing " Tuzze\'" 
Winters, the favourite of that locality, others are talking 
about the prowess of " Old Bill Corbett" of Lambeth, 
while a third section canvass the merits of a champion 
from Bethnal Green. And so on ; each boxer has his 
friends and admirers, his critics and his detractors, like 
greater folk in the bigger rings of the world. But there 
is no disorder; indeed, the orderliness of the 
crowd is remarkable, considerinp- its extent a boxing 

■=" competition. 

and composition. And in all this great build- 
ing there is not a single policeman to be seen! While 
you have been making these observations the competitors 
for honours in the 9 st. 2 lb. lot have retired; The sec- 
onds, with the usual paraphernalia, get into their corners. 
Two gladiators appear, and the crier introduces them to 
the audience with the most elaborate distinctness. 
" Three rounds. Two minutes each. Between So-and- 
so of Lambeth and So-and-so of Poplar. On my right 
is So-and-so of Lambeth; on my left is So-and-so of 
Poplar." And that there may be no mistake he points 
with stretched-out forefinger at each of the combatants 
in turn. Then the rivals set to work. There is some 
careful sparring, a free exchange of blows, some dodging, 
and suddenly one of the two gets in a swinging left- 



262 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

hander — down goes the other on the floor as " time" is 
called. A second round, and, before it is half over, the 
same man is sent to the ground again by a " short left- 
handed jolt under the jaw" — to quote the chaste expres- 
sion of the sporting reporter. The referee, seeing that 
the man on the floor is hopelessly outclassed, stops the 
match, giving the victory, of course, to the other. There 
are several more matches, until all are weeded out, from 
one reason or another, except two, who, it is announced, 
will come together again to decide the matter on the 
following Saturday. Next comes a final match in a 
competition between 8 st. 4 lb. men; it is without 
special incident. 

All this while you have been looking on from your seat 
on the stage, but your attention has been drawn off not 
a little by the persistent attentions of the vendors of re- 
freshments who perambulate the place ceaselessly — in 
truth, they may be said to pervade it. The viands and 
other things they offer you smack of the locality in which 
" Wonderland" stands. First on the scene is the pur- 
veyor of that greatest of East End delicacies, the stewed 
eel. " Any toff (those seated on the stage, 
oMeii where the prices are highest, are necessarily 

"toffs") 'ave a bit o' jelly?" cries the man in 
your ear, just as you are most intent on the ring. " Any 
toff 'ave a bit o' Monte?" (Monte, you guess, is the 
name of the cordon blcue who prepares the dish.) " Any 



WONDERLAND" 



263 



toff 'ave a bit o' jelly, six or three?" (The allusion to 
" six or three" refers to the price per bowl.) And more 
than one toff patronises the Monte-seller. Hardly has 
he gone when a boy assails you with, " Orange, good 
orange, good juicy orange! Want an orange? Good 
juicy orange!" The 
said oranges are handed 
round in a wash-hand 
basin of enamelled w^are. 
To him succeeds an- 
other youth, carrying 
" smokes" on a tray. 
" Cigareets, good cigar, 
shag!" he chants and 
chants again in a 
piercing voice — " cigar- 
ee-eets, cigar-ee-eets !" 
And now bustles forward a waiter, and shouts out some 
mystic words, which you understand by and bye, more 
from effect than cause, so to say, to mean that he wishes 
you to give him an order. What you really hear him 
say is, " Sorders, any sorders, gemmen, sorders !" His 
desire for " sorders" is gratified, but not to any very 
alarming extent. And after him there appears a man 
with ginger-beer and other " minerals." He has a sort 
of half-musical cry : " Limonade, limonade, ginger-beer, 
or kola, kola, ko-la!" And all through the evening these 







264 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

itinerants come and importune you. They, their wares, 
and their cries form an integral part of as curious a scene 
as any in London. 

The first six-rounds contest is now " on." A Mile- 
Ender is matched against an Aldgate boxer, but the 
former has the best of it from the beginning, though his 
opponent stands up to him gamely enough ; the latter gets 
applause liberally, but the other gets the verdict. On this 
fight there follows what turns out to be the event of the 
evening; this is the contest between Charley Knock of 
Stratford and " Jewey" Cook of Hammersmith. As 
they come into the ring there are cheers from every part 
of the building; evidently both have many friends, many 
backers; shouts of "Charley" contend with shouts of 
" Jewey." Charley stands up, with his head thrown well 
back ; " Jewey" carries his bent well forward ; of the two, 
the former bears himself the easier; there is something 
sinister in the pose of the other. In the first round 
Charley sets the pace very fast, and lands a hard " left 
hook" on the " Yiddish boy's" jaw. " Jewey," however, 
evens up matters with a sharp swinging right on the left 
eye of his competitor. But on the whole Charley has the 
best of the round. When the bell sounds (by the way, 
the bell is a particularly brazen gong) and the men retire 
to their corners, they are given thunderous applause from 
all parts of the house. And, indeed, applause, in spite of 
the efforts of the management to control it, breaks forth 



" WONDERLAND" 267 

whenever Charley or " Jewey" gets in a really telling; 
blow. In the next round " Jewey" is very busy with his 
hands — so, for that matter, is Charley, and there is not 
much to choose between them. And the third 

A fight which 

round is also a pretty even one — Charley lands ends in a 

draw. 

a couple of very hard right-handers on 
" Jewey 's" short-ribs, but " Jewey" retaliates on the other 
man's face. The fourth round is a fast and heavy one, 
and you watch it almost breathlessly. " Jewev" adds a 
lump to the right optic of Charley, who responds by a 
hard hit on his man's nose and a terrific right-hander in 
t'other's ribs, amidst vociferous cheering for both rivals. 
The contest continues very even until half-way through 
the seventh round, when Charley nearly settles it bv plant- 
ing a terrible swinging right on '' Jewey's" face, which 
brings the latter to his knees. " Jewey," to the delight of 
his partisans, manages to get up, and fights on till " time" 
is called. It is now the eighth round, and excitement runs 
high in " Wonderland." Both men receive attentions and 
advice from their seconds ; then, having shaken hands, 
they set to once more. There is much hard hitting on 
both sides, but there is no decisive blow, no knock-out. 
The gong sounds, and amidst a veritable Babel the referee 
announces his decision — the verdict is a " draw." This, 
of course, satisfies nobody, and the whole house breaks 
into an indescribable uproar. For a moment it seems as 
if there were to be a gigantic row, but the tumult ceases 



268 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

as the crier steps into the ring, and throws oil on the 
troubled waters by saying there was no disputing the 
decision of the referee — that was the in\ariable rule, as 
everybody knew. And he reminded them that the referee 
was strictly impartial. Moreover, there would be an- 
other opportunity for Charley and " Jewey" to meet once 
more; the management would see to that. In the mean- 
time, the}^ had all witnessed a very fine display; the men 
were evidently very evenly matched, and there was not 
much difference between them. Whereupon the storm is 
calmed. 

Other contests follow, but none is quite so interesting 
as that between Charley and " Jewey." As you drive 
home, 3^ou reflect on all you have seen, and perhaps won- 
der whither such a place as " Wonderland" tends. Well, 
whither does it tend? And you must remember that box- 
ing contests are constantly to be seen, as was said at the 
beginning of this article, in other parts of the town — for 
instance, in the Drill Hall at Woolwich, at the North 
London Baths, and at Lexington Hall, Golden Square. 
Perhaps it may help to answer the question if you con- 
sider the following quotation from a charge of 
oJbtxlng. ^^- Justice Grantham in a case where the 
authorities of the National Sporting Club were 
on trial for " feloniously killing and slaying" a certain 
boxer. That is to say, the boxer in question was believed 
to have died from or as the result of a blow delivered in 



" WONDERLAND" 



269 



a contest at the National Sporting Club. " It is much 
better." said the judge, '" for a man to use the weapon 
God has given him. nameh' his fists, than the knife, be- 
cause it is not so dangerous, and that is why a great 
inimbcr of people are fond of boxing. On the other hand 
it is very desirable that proper boxing under proper rules 
should be kept up ; all people should not be afraid of using 
their fists when necessary. .\s long as man is human 
people will lose their tempers and wrongs will be done, 
and it is most desirable that Englishmen should never use 
another weapon, and never lose his temper, and always 
punish the man who is wrong." 




CHAPTER XX 

NEW year's eve at ST. PAULAS 
Scots wha hae." 

Time was (according to report, for which there seems 
to have been some foundation) when on any New Year's 
Eve on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, and all around 
that famous pile, was a perfect Saturnalia of Scotsmen 
pledging, not wisely but too well, in the wine of their 
native land, themselves, their '* neebours," and their 
" auld acquaintance." On the last night of the year of 
grace, looi, it was to be perceived that, while 

Midnight, & ^ ' i ' 

St. PauVs, the festival of " Auld Lang Syne" was still 
1901. 

celebrated at St. Paul's, its reputed, afore-time 

character had been somewhat lost. Many of those who 
witnessed the proceedings bewailed that the affair had 
been shorn to a large extent of its former Bacchanalian 
glories, and that the Scot, who had formerly (dis) graced 
the occasion in considerable numbers, was now conspicu- 
ous by his absence. At the same time the scene was not 
wanting in a certain interest ; and as there is still nothing 
quite like it in the story of the Night Side of London, you 
shall mingle with the crowd, listen to its humours, per- 
270 



■ NEW YEAR'S EVE AT ST. PAUL'S 271 

haps discover a " brither Scot," liear the great clock boom 
out the midnight hour, join in the query, " Should auld 
acquaintance be forgot?" and try for the moment to for- 
get that there are some people you think were much 
" better dead." 

Like Johnson, you take a walk down Fleet Street, and 
then on up Ludgate Hill, until you find yourself on the 
confines of a crowd of people, a single glance at whom 
will tell you that you are in what is, for the most part, a 
gathering of young men and women, the majority of 
them belonging to the familiar East End types of beauty 
and fashion. And the voices you listen to are nearly all 
eloquent of Whitechapel and the territories thereunto 
adjoining. Hear and there is the accent'of middle Lon- 
don — the true Cockney dom ; in actual quality 
of tone it differs but little from that of White- ^^l^^ 

chapel — it too pronounces its long a as /, as for 
instance, it persistently calls a lady a " lidy," but it is 
somewhat better educated, and stops short of such a word 
as "garn!" And on the vagrant air perchance there 
comes the burr of Yorkshire. On a sudden you hear 
asked a " Hoo 's a' wi' ye?" and you know that the affair 
is not quite forsaken of the Caledonian, stern and wild. 
Only, he does not look at all stern, nor is he particularly 
wild. At least, not yet — but it is still some time to mid- 
night, and John Barleycorn is a mighty power. And 
now, from the far distance, there reaches you the skirl 



~/^ 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



of the pipes, mercifully modified and attenuated. But on 
the whole, at any rate at first, there is more silence than 
noise. Perhaps the reason for this may be discerned in 
the fact, which soon presses itself emphatically on your 
observation, that no inconsiderable portion of this in- 
formal New Year's assembly is composed of waterproof- 
caped policemen, standing " two by two," gazing about 
them in that good-humoured, tolerant manner which is 
characteristic of the London " Robert." 

It is a cheerful scene — this you see in the light of the 
electric lamps, though the night is damp and overcast with 
dark clouds, from which there descends now and again a 
chill drizzle, a sort of heavy " weeping" Scotch mist, in 
honour of the occasion perhaps. Underfoot the pave- 
ments and the roadway are deep in mud. Should a pass- 
ing vehicle come your way, you will receive 
pieaslnf. somc geuerous splashes as its churning wheels 

go by. But in spite of these little amenities 
every one looks, or tries to look, pleasant. Above the sea 
of heads rises the grey and ghostly facade of the Cathe- 
dral — the columns in the foreground a shade less grey 
and ghostly than the much shadowed mass in the back- 
ground. No light streams from the windows of the un- 
benignant, inhospitable, frowning building. The Church 
has no message to-night, save one of silence, for these 
her sons and daughters. Formerly there used to be a 
service held here at midnight, but the practice has been 




SHOl LL) Al/LD Ari HAIXTAXCK I'.K J'nKL.O I' 



NEW YEAR'S EVE AT ST. PAUL'S 275 

discontinued. Eormeiiy also, the wide steps of St. Paul's 
were open to the multitudes on the New Year eves, but 
to-night the former are railed in and the latter railed out. 
St. Paul's says, " I have nothing to do with you, nothing 
to say to you, you children of the night." Both of the 
discontinuances just mentioned may be necessary, but 
somehow one imagines that in other lands Mother Church 
would have coped with the revels of New Y'ear's Eve in 
a less brusque and far more sympathetic, and even more 
forgiving, fashion. But St. Paul's stands and frowns 
the frown of obdurate respectability. 

Yet notwithstanding the ban of the Church and the 
inclemency of the weather, the scene remains stubbornly 
cheerful, for the people remain stubbornry cheerful. You 
push your way into the crowd — it is not a difficult opera- 
tion, thanks to its being broken up by the policemen as 
aforesaid. Perhaps you stop and have a chat with one of 
these keepers of the King's peace, and you remark that 
there is not much " fun" going, and you say this in rather 
a disappointed tone most probably. Where, you ask, are 
the frolics you had reasonably expected to see? Where 
the meeting and the fervent hand-clasps of the 
Scotsmen of London ? And vou are told that ^^^°'^ 

midnight. 

perhaps you might see something of that sort 
at some Caledonian dance or another which is being held 
in another part of the town— thither, you hear, the choicer 
spirits have departed, and New Y^ear's Eve, like so much 



276 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

else in London town, is not as it " used to was," so far as 
St. Paul's is concerned. Shall there be no more cakes and 
ale? you wonder; but even as you murmur this your at- 
tention is caught by a group of young sailors, talking and 
laughing together. The names of their ships are embla- 
zoned on their caps, and you notice they belong to differ- 
ent vessels. Perhaps, you think, they are Scottish lads 
come to foregather with their countrymen, but their 
speech is not that of the North. Another thing you ob- 
serve is that while they are good-humoured they are 
perfectly sober. And in another minute there is the 
sound of a concertina — the most popular of all street in- 
struments in a crowd — and, hey! the jolly tars are at it, 
heel and toe, footing the hornpipe right merrily, while 
the crowd look on and roar encouragement. At one side 
of them stands a man in bonnet and kilts, and he may or 
may not be a Scotsman, you think doubtfull}\ for the 
cowl does not make the monk, but you hesitate no longer 
when you hear him cry, " Ay, ay ; they're nae that foo — 
nae foo at a' !" as he half-approvingly regards the dancing 
Jacks. You mo\c on a few^ steps, and now you are beside 
the railings of St. Paul's, the unkindly railings that shut 
in the broad steps of the Cathedral. And here you behold 
some swift interchanges of certain black bottles from 
hand to hand and from mouth to mouth. " Auld Kirk" 
it is — Glenlivet, Talisker, Lagavulin, what not — and the 
" wee drappie" circulates. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE AT ST. PAUL'S 277 



The clock is 011 the stroke of twelve. There is some 
faint siii^inL,^ of sentimental songs, such as are to he heard 
in c'\ery similar crcnvd, Init they are Cockney ditties every 
one. smacking all alike 
of the mnsic - halls. 
I'hcn there is a sndden 
silence — in a way the 
instinct of the crowd 
is remarkal)le. A big 
group forms, and as 
the first stroke booms 
forth these Scotti.sh ex- 
iles from Whitechapel 
sing together " For Old 
Long Zine" — at least, 
these appear to be the 
words of the song. But 
mingling with these 
\oices are the deeper 
notes of the genuine 
thing, '* Should auld 
accjuaintancc be for- 
got, and never brocht to mind?" The clock booms on, 
and from somewhere over your head there is 
the quick spurt and flame of an impertinent 
flashlight — and you realise that you have been photo- 
graphed, willy-nilly. You are not the only chiel amang 




Midnight. 



278' THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

the crood takkin' notes, an' faith ! he'll prent 'em as well 
as you. It is at this instant that a grisly suspicion slowly 
takes possession of you — and, likely enough, annoys you 
more than a little. You saw the big group form and 
begin its song; the group was formed, and the song was 
sung — well, not to say good-bye to the Old and to wel- 
come in the New Year, but to afford that flashlight pho- 
tographer his opportunity, and furnish some Barnum of 
a journalist with "copy." You have been tricked! At 
first you resent the thing, and then you laugh. " Every- 
thing goes!" You " can't 'elp but smile," as you realise 
you have, as it were, been " given away with a pound o' 
tea!" But the sentiment of the New Year's Eve! — Oh, 
hang sentiment; let's " lorf." 

But is the whole sentiment of the scene merely a thing 
made and manufactured for selling in parts? Who 
knows? Still, here, at any rate, comes a piper through 
the crowd, and at his heels a rabble. See how he blows 
with distended cheeks into his pipes, how proudly he 
clasps them, how gaily he marches along, swinging with 
the swing of the music, piping as if his life depended on 

it ! Hurricanes of Highland reels and strath- 
sl^Paul^s^"" speys sound in your memory, perhaps, as he 

passes by; visions of the Highlands and the 
Islands — deep-sunken glens shadowed by silver birches, 
broad-bosomed lochs with deer drinking on the marge, 
hills of purple rising fold on fold to the radiant line of 



NEW YE.XR'S EVE AT ST. PAUL'S 279 

sky, lonely shores of firths shrinking- far inland from the 
wean, the (juiet of the clachans and the silence of the 




NEW p/GAR.-^ Eve, . 



sheilings, grey villages and towns and cities by the rivers 
and on the coasts, beside the grim kirks the green graves 



28o THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

of the heroes and the martyrs of the race — all the music, 
and the poetry, and the deathless romance of a people 
rise and fall, and rise again like the waves of the sea, as 
the piper goes piping hy — rise and fall and rise again in 
all true Highland hearts, as he blows his heart and puts 
his soul into his music. It is not, you know very well, 
great music, really fine music — there be many who will 
tell vou that it is the least musical music in the world — 
but it goes to the head, and the heart, and the feet as 
does no other. So behind this London piper, marching, 
marching, marching, down Ludgate Hill and up Fleet 
Street, goes the whole crowd from St. Paul's. It is a 
lively quick-step he is playing, the crowd steps to it like a 
single man. and so, through the drizzle of the rain and 
the sludge of the street, it moves on and on into the New 
Year. 

After so much sentiment, you naturally turn into the 
Press Club, where you speedily and, perhaps, effectually 
damp it. But sentiment was always a thirsty business ! 



CHAPTER XXI 

THE hoppers' SATURDAY NIGHT 
" A-roaming we will go." 

A CURIOUS though passing phase of tlie Night Side cri 
London is to be seen towards the end of August, wlien 
the hop-picking season begins — the time when a vast 
army of East Enders take their annual hoHday. Every 
year thousands of men, women, and chilchrcn from 
Whitechapel and South wark make their way from the 
great city into the pleasant land of Kent, where the ripe 
hops, in long lanes of green and gold, stand waiting for 
the hand of the picker. The Saturdav night of 

The 

the exodus sees some extraordinary scenes at East End 

exodus. 

the raihvay station from whicli the majority of 
the " hoppers" depart — scenes full of the most genuine 
human interest, humorous, pathetic, lively rather than 
thrilling, but certainly richly coloured by the tragi-comedy 
of life. Formerly the hoppers made London Bridge sta- 
tion the centre of these scenes, and tliere was a sort of 
dramatic propriety in London Bridge, with its historic 
associations, being a starting-point. Now it is from the 

Southwark station, Blackfriars Bridge, that the hop- 

281 



282 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

pickers descend, like clouds of locusts, upon the " gardens" 
of Kent. As a matter of fact, the hoppers had very little 
to do with the change — the omnipotent railway company 
" fixed it all up." 

Not that it is only by rail that the East End goes on 
this annual excursion. Those who own, or who can beg, 
borrow, or steal, a pony and van or a " moke" and bar- 
row, travel down to Maidstone and the hop country by 
road — these be the aristocrats among the hoppers, for 
there are social distinctions amongst them, " and what 
for no?" as they say in North Britain. The Whitechapel 
family that drives in van or cart to the hop-fields is 
proudly conscious of going there in style. But few of 
the hoppers, however, can experience this luxury of feel- 
ing. A goodly number of them, indeed, cannot afford 
the railway fare even, and have to fall back on that useful 
animal called Shanks' mare. Still, somehow, anyhow, 
whether it is by road or rail, fifty thousand East Enders 
get themselves out of London town. The 

The marcli 

of the scenes which may be beheld as the hoppers 

hoppers. 

march along the Dover Road are picturesque 
enough, but for light and shade, for complete scenic 
effect on a grand scale, as in the staging, so to speak, of 
some gigantic Beggar's Opera, Black friars Bridge must 
be seen on the hoppers' Saturday night. 

Long before midnight streams of people have been 
flowing towards the station, but it is about that time 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 283 

when the most inipressixe pictures may l)e viewed. Stand 
for a moment, sa}-, in Ludgate Circus, and then walk up 
the road and on across Blackfriars Bridge. And you will 
see — what you will see. It will he something like this. 
The hridg-e is in a half-gloom, and the partial darkness 
adds a touch of suggestion and a hint of mystery. The 
air is perhaps windless and still, but the sullen roar, which 
is London's \oice by day, is not yet hushed. As you note 
the figures that flit about in the shadows, your e}'es fasten 
themseh'es on a procession, small, but typical, moving 
slowly alongside the left parapet. You could 
not have hit upon an^•thing more characteris- ' '.''^ 

i .0 pvocess'on. 

tic than this little procession, though it is only 
one of many similar processions. Your gaze may stray 
away from it for a second in search of other objects of 
interest, but it will inevitably come back to it ; it is ex- 
actly- what }-ou ha\-e come out to see — at any rate, here is 
the beginning of it. For this little procession is a proces- 
sion of hoppers. 

" Hark ! hark ! the dogs do bark ; the beggars are leaving the town ! 
Some in rags, some in bags, and some in a velvet gown !" 

Is it SO? Not cjuite. Take a good look at this procession 
of the hoppers. It consists of some fourteen or fifteen 
males and females — souls, the polite authors of another 
day would have been good enough to call them. 

In its van are two small old women; their years six or 



284 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

seven ; yes, they are already old, preternaturally old, for 
slum life has left its aging mark upon them. But if you 
could look into their eyes as they walk along the bridge 
(for them no Bridge of Sighs just now) you would see 
the light of hope and happiness shining in them. Nothing 
in the world can ever make them young again — it might 
well be they were born old ; now they are an- 

Two old 

women aged ticipatiug witli delight unspeakable three or 



SIX or seven. 



four weeks in the country under the open sky 
— a period of delicious vagabondage — " Oh, sich larks — 
a reg'lar beano !" And the small hearts are as big with 
joy as they can hold. Both of these little old women 
carry burdens; this is to be no holiday of mere idleness. 
One has two umbrellas and a bright new kettle, the other 
a large package, bulging with a nondescript collection of 
God knows what. And thus they head the procession for 
the promised land under the bright star of hope. 

Two or three feet behind them comes a man. On his 
left shoulder is a great sack, a veritable hold-all, cheap but 
excellent, filled wellnigh to bursting with all manner of 
household stuff. With his right hand he leads a small 
urchin of three. The little chap no doubt is tired ; he 
has probably walked miles from his home in Mile- 
End or further east, but he walks gamely on. 

The leader 

his steps three to two of his father's, without 
a murmur^Ye too has the beano and the green fields in 
his mind. Now, take a good square look at the man. 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 287 

He. 3011 can see. is the real leader of the expedition. He 
is dressed in moleskins; they are worn, work-stained, but 
not ragged. His face is good-humoured, and the smile 
he turns on the trotting child is only partially alcoholic. 
In fact, he is a favourable specimen of the hopper, and 
your instinct tells you he is not a bad sort. You guess 
his ordinary business — he may be a dock hand, a " la- 
bourer," or anything in the East End. Now he is out for 
his holiday, a holiday of work, it is true, but still a holi- 
day, and he means to enjoy every moment of it. You see 
he and the child are quite happy. 

At his heels are four children of various ages, boys and 
girls " assorted." Each of them carries something — pots, 
pans, a jar, packages, and so on. They don't talk much 
— they are too tired for one thing, but they march on 
steadily towards the big station whence they are to depart 
for the fields of Kent. The next figure is that of a man. 
and on his shoulder also is a sack exactly like that of the 
other man in front. You can tell at a glance 

. Figures 

he is not such a good fellow as the first. He 'mhe 

. . , . procession. 

carries his sack clumsily and as if under pro- 
test ; he carries it heavily in his mind, you may be sure, 
as well as on his shoulder. Now and again he throws 
the sack down with a very audible curse, but soon he picks 
it up and moves on after the rest He is disposed to be 
somewhat quarrelsome, and you guess he has already had 
as much drink as is good for him. His idea of a holiday 



288 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

is to go on the spree — on the " booze," he would call it — 
and he is going on it while he may. He is not very drunk 
yet, but he cherishes a sure and certain purpose to be m<jre 
so. By his side runs a small bo}'. holding in his hand the 
man's straw hat: in his other hand is a bundle. Next 
come two or three more children, all tired, all laden, but 
all jogging, jogging, jogging on and all happy, as you 
cannot fail to understand. Last in the procession appear 
two shawled, stout, elderly women — the mothers these of 
the children ; and as they bring up the rear, they keep a 
keen watch on the adx-ancing flock for stragglers, but 
there are none save the second man with a sack. He is 
the bad boy of the party, and so is inclined to be " obstrop- 
ulous." The two women don't pay much attention to 
him. With all imaginable gravity they walk along the 
pavement, carrying large packages, in which perhaps are 
the " things" they value most. They are deep in talk, 
discussing their men, it may be, or their children, or 
sharing the gossip of their quarter, and possibly, very 
possibly, improving upon it. Their language is not ex- 
actly that of the West End; it is, truth to tell, saturated 
through and through with expressions and ideas which 
are not precisely literary or drawing-roomy, but the kind 
of subjects they pass under review are not very different 
from those most often on the lips of the greatest of great 
people, for the human nature of the East End is as like 
the human nature of the West as are two barleycorns. 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 289 

The procession wends (the only member of it who 
reallv i^'ciuls is the bad boy. but any well-regulated pro- 
cession is supposed to iccnd ) its w^ay across the bridge, 
the behaviour of the little old women who form the 
advance-guard being in particular beyond re[)roach. 
When the Soutiiwark side is reached, tlie second man, 




THE WOMEN AND THE CHILDREN DRINK GENEROUSLY. 

otherwise the bad boy, throws down his sack, grumbles 
at the two women, wlm reply in kind, about the weiglit 
of the blankety sack he has to carry, and says he must 
have a rest. This is not (juite what he says, but it is 
near enough. He is left behind by all except his smah 

19 



290 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

hat-bearer, but presently he shoulders his burden once 
more, and staggers on. In another minute all halt unani- 
mously in front of a flaring " public," the first they have 
come to since we added ourselves to their com- 
way house. P^ny. It is a sort of halfway house between 
the bridge and the station. The two men go 
in, while the women and the children sit down in a hud- 
dled group on the pavement before the door. A few 
seconds go by and then the men emerge with huge foam- 
ing jugs of "four-ale," which are passed round; the 
women and the children drink generously and luxuri- 
ously ; it is all part and parcel of the beano. 

And now there is no lack of companions, for the road- 
way is black with hoppers and their friends. The number 
of them goes on steadily increasing; as some drift off to 
the station or the next public-house, fresh arrivals take 
their places. Most of the hoppers are on foot, but a few 
come in vans. It is a good-tempered crowd; there are 
jokes — most of them older than the hills, a fire of chaff 
of a homely but hard-hitting variety, shouts of laughter, 
a snatch of song — " Only one Gel in the World fur Me," 
the cacophonous squeaking of a cracked concertina. You 
can see there has been plenty of drinking, but there is not 
much drunkenness ; few or none have reached the squab- 
bling stage. The most intoxicated hopper is far and 
away the best-dressed man in the whole lot ; he is so well 
dressed that you wonder what on earth he is doing here. 



THE HOPrERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 291 

But what will impress you must is that there is no 
disorder ; then the picturesqueness of the scene will grip 
you. For it is a picturesque scene this, in the not too 
well-lighted street, and undoubtedly the dark- 
ness heli)s, covering up the ras^s if there are "je happy 
any. blurring with kindly obscuring hand the 
lines hunger and poverty have worked into pale thin 
faces, causing a loss of detail in the whole picture, but a 
broad richness of general effect. The darkness rubs some 
of the weariness and tiredness out of the faces of the little 
children ; you know the mites must be worn out, and their 
presence makes for pathos. But otherwise the main note 
of the occasion is one of festival. Undoubtedly there is 
happiness here in the street among the hoppers, nor is 
that hapi^iness by any means entirely alcoholic. There is 
plenty of fun, and, considering the circumstances, it is of 
an astonishingly quiet pattern. But a little further along 
the road to the station, and we happen upon a scene of 
broad humour. 

The street has now widened into what might by cour- 
tesy be termed a square, and across it the gleaming win- 
dows of two " pubs" face each other. The place is full of 
people — some of the people are " full" too, and the pubs 
are crowded. It is now getting on to the " Hour of 
Closing," 12.30, and every one seems pretty intent on 
getting out as much of the flying moments as he can, and, 
at the same time, getting into himself or herself as much 



292 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

as he or she can hold. There is a special attraction, 
however, in front of one of the pubs, and like many of 
the hoppers we stand and " take it in." A couple of hop- 
pers are dancing on a narrow strip of pavement to the in- 
spiring strains of a wheezy concertina played by another 
hopper; the pair are encompassed by spectators, who 
shout words of encouragement and approval. The lady 
of the pair dancing is a " fine, upstanding wench," a by 
no means bad-looking " gel." She is dressed rather bet- 
ter than the majority of the other young women about, 
and sports a new, blue blouse. She dances 

The"ger' ^ 

in the with a certain rough gracefulness, and with 

blue blouse. 

amazing vigour. Her black eyes are snapping 
fires. Every line of her betokens enjoyment. See how 
her body swings and sways to the unmusical music. She 
is having a good time, you bet. Her partner is a young 
man of her own class — perhaps he is her young man, 
perhaps not ; but subsequent events seem to support the 
former conjecture. The young man wears somewhat of 
a sheepish look as he foots it a trifle awkwardly on the 
kerb, but " Lizerunt," or whatever the young woman's 
name is, looks at him with keenly resentful glance if he 
shows any sign of weakening or stopping. At last, the 
challenge of these eyes becomes intolerable, and he 
springs forward and puts his arms round the fair dam- 
sel's neck. " Garn !" she cries, pulls herself away from 
him, and smacks him hard on his face. The spectators 




SHE DANCES WITH A CERTAIN ROUGH GRACEFULNESS. 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 295 

grin and shout, but it is only a love-spat. The girl goes 
on dancing as if nothing had occurred, and such playful 
little amenities as these are common features of East End 
courtships. The harder the hitting, the greater the love! 
And appreciating this thoroughly, Mr. 'Enery 'Awkins 
stands up to the girl again, and begins anew to do his 
shuffling steps on the pavement. And now you notice he 
warms to his work — Lizerunt's slap has done that much. 
Forward and backward the couple dance; they join arms 
and swing together ; then they line up and at it again. 
And so it goes on for a short space of time. But this is 
not enough for 'Enery, and after one or two turns more, 
he moves forward with a jump, throws himself upon her, 
encircles her in his arms — the operation has been some- 
thing of the suddenest — and both fall to the ground with 
the time-honoured " dull thud." At least you imagine 
there must have been a dull thud, but you cannot hear it 
for tlie laughing shouts of the onlookers. Then 'Enery 
and Lizerunt melt into the crowd, having covered them- 
selves with glory. They have had a big gorgeous mouth- 
ful of Whitechapel delight ; you may be certain they 
go to the station mightily well pleased with themselves. 
Hai, tiddley, ai ! tiddley, ai ! tai, tai ! 

With the shutting of the public-houses the motley 
crowd takes up its miscellanea of sacks, bags, pots, pails, 
and other etcetera (including in one case the family cat), 
and makes for the station, which is close at hand. At the 



296 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 

entrance on the street a barrier has been erected, and we 
are asked if we intend purchasing a ticket. We explain 
to the guardian of the gate, who has evidently been frat- 
ernising with the hoppers — examining their jugs perhaps 
— that we are pressmen and have come to look on. He 
smiles indulgently (in a double sense), fobs a 

The station. 

tip, and we pass on to a second barrier, topped 
with sputtering gas-jets. But here we are stopped by a 
remorseless railway inspector, who tells us we can go no 
further unless we have tickets. One of us (the present 
scribe — in the Name of the Prophet!) tries him with the 
" pressmen" statement, but it is as clear as daylight he 
does not believe it. He may have some grounds for his 
incredulity, for the one of us before-mentioned has got 
himself up as an East Ender. and his make-up is too 
good ; the other of us is not wearing his go-to-meeting 
clothes either. We are objects of suspicion, but we en- 
deavour to reason with the official. " No," he says 
decisivelv, " you can't get in without tickets. Come to 
look on, have you? Well, we don't want the platform 
lumbered up with people looking on ; there will be plenty 
without that sort." And he snorts derisively. We expos- 
tulate, but in vain. " I don't see it," concluded the in- 
spector. So we go back to the first barrier, tell the man 
on guard there our difficulty, but he can do nothing for 
us except buy us a couple of tickets. The tickets are two 
shillings each, and are good for any part of the hop 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 297 

count r\ — A}Iesfoi"cl, Snodlaiul, Hawkhurst, Maidstone, 
Tonl)ri(lg-e, and Paddock Wood. At length botl: of us find 
ourseK'es on the platform, but we have a resentful sense 
that the railwa}- has scored off us. However, a day will 
ct)nie. \'uss, it will. The South-Eastern-Chatham- 
Dover combination had better look to themselves. 

Yet the money for the tickets was well spent. The 
scene on the platform \vas an astonishing- one, and of 
curious interest, like all the rest of the hoppers' Saturday 
night. On the right hand of the platform was a long, 
dingily lighted train, entirely composed of third-class car- 
riages, from which all cushions and other upholster\- had 
been stripped, a lil)eral top-dressing of strong 

The 

disinfectants ha\-ing taken their place.' The dcpanuve 

platform. 

train is a long one, and on the further side of 
the platform, across a yard, are another platform and 
another train. Five of these hoppers' " palace" trains 
(trains-dc-Chloriilc of Lime) left Southwark that night, 
each carrying about five hundred passengers — not a l)ad 
night's work for the railway company. The hoppers 
come pouring in. .\lread}- the carriages nearest the end 
of the out-going train are filled. You look in as you pass, 
and you see in each compartment a family and its belong- 
ings — father, mother, children, sacks, bags, pots, pans, 
all as hereinbefore indicated. The elders dispose of their 
paraphernalia so as to make the compartment appear inca- 
pable of holding an atom more ; two or three of the young- 
sters lean out of the window' so as to block it. A party of 



298 THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



half a dozen now come along; they are decidedly " under 
the influence," and they sing a sentimental song as they 
get into a carriage — it is " Break the News to Mother," 
and they feel simply glorious. Presently we behold the 
procession we watched across the Blackfriars Bridge 
trudge on to the platform — the two men, the two women, 
the array of children. They fill up two compartments. 
What the bad boy has been doing since we met him last 
we don't know, but there he is — safely gathered in. More 

and more hoppers — ever 
more and more hoppers 
appear, among them the 
young lady of the blue 
blouse, who half an hour 
earlier was dancing on 
the pavement before the 
Yellow Cow, or what- 
ever it is named. She 
gets into a carriage with 
her friends and little lot, 
and then hangs out of 
the window, chaffing the 
passers-by. In the car- 
riage next the engine is 
a gang of lads and boys ; 
they are shouting lustily, in all sorts of voices, " Shike 
'ands an' let us be friends ; wot's the use to quarrul," or 
words to that effect. A few minutes more, and the train 




THEN HANGS OUT OF THE WINDOW. 



THE HOPPERS' SATURDAY NIGHT 299 

pulls out of the station amidst cries and cheers. The 
stragglers who have not succeeded in getting seats make 
a rush for the other train — and so the thing goes on till 
the last train leaves and the station is closed. 

As you depart you will observe that the station, now 
deserted, is beyond peradventure the barest, dreariest 
looking place you have ever been in. Every portable 
article has been removed from it; even the two large 
weighing-machines, its sole furniture, have been boarded 
up as if to prevent any idea of their being taken away. 
There is a reason for all this. The hop-pickers are not 
pickers of hops only — there you have it. Now^ listen to a 
tale that is told of the gentle hopper. Oner upon a time 
there w^as a benevolently disposed person who resolved 
to do something for the comfort of the poor hopper. He 
put up a coffee-stall, in the hoppers' station, and furnished 
it splendidly with shining coffee-making machines, cups, 
saucers, mugs, buns, sandwiches — everything. The hop- 
pers swooped down on that coffee-stall, and devoured and 
drank till no more was left to devour or drink. They 
needed no waiters ; they w^ent on the grand 
old plan of helping themselves, and they did ^is^old. 

help themselves. The soul of the benevolently 
disposed individual rejoiced exceedingly, but only for a 
while. Alas, that it should be so ! For the hoppers were 
not content with helping themselves to the coffee and the 
cakes, the sandwiches and the buns, but they helped them- 
selves also to the cups and the saucers, the knives and the 



300 



THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON 



forks and the spoons, and when nothing remained of 
these handy and convenient souvenirs of the coffee-stall, 
they helped themselves to the coffee-making machines. 
The only thing they left to the benevolently disposed 
gentleman was the coffee-stall, and they would have taken 
that, only it was too big! Well, more in sorrow than in 
anger, the gentleman repeated his experiment — with ex- 
actly the same result. Like the man who was kicked by 
the mule twice in the same place, he got discouraged and 
left off trying. So runs the tale, and it's just possible 
there is some truth in it. 



^^^$> 







MAY 2 H 1902 



1 COPY DEL. TO CAT. OIV. 
MAY 28 ia02 



